


You Can Count on Me

by thegraytigress



Series: Home for the Holidays [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action/Adventure, Christmas, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Home for Christmas, Hurt Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sam Wilson Feels, Sam Wilson is So Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 11:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: It's their first Christmas on the run as fugitives, and Steve's secret plan to get Sam home for the holidays goes about as well as can be expected.  It's a good thing Sam has the patience of a saint.  He needs it since Steve (and his stupid, stubborn, self-sacrificing,heavyass) is very clearly his burden to bear.He wouldn't have it any other way.





	You Can Count on Me

**Author's Note:**

> This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended. Please don't repost this story to other archives or websites.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for language, violence)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Just barely got this posted in time! It's the first of a pair of stories about our favorite fugitives getting home for the holidays. This focuses on Steve and Sam's incredible friendship. The second fic will be Stony, but you don't have to read that (there is no overt mention of it in this story). No, this story is 100% genfic. No real warnings, although it's me, so there's some Steve whump :-). It's a real holiday misadventure.
> 
> Also, I was heavily inspired by the amazing Anthony Mackie and his Louisiana roots (and his appearance on _Top Chef_ a few years back). What can I say? Good cooking and a ton of good-looking ;-). Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful holiday!

There are times when Sam really misses home. 

Like now. It’s Thanksgiving. That’s supposed to mean Mama’s herb-roasted turkey and scalloped potatoes and mac and cheese and collard greens with bacon and perfect, sweet beignets. It’s supposed to mean Mama and her sisters in the kitchen and his Daddy (when his Daddy had still been with them, God rest his soul) watching football with all the cousins and uncles crammed into their little place near Bayou St. John, beer abundant and the smells from the meal intoxicating. It’s supposed to mean good times, good family, and good, good food. 

This is about as far from that as possible. 

“You alright?” 

Sam turns from where he’s staring out a crud-crusted window. He’s been keeping watch the better part of the night, staring through the grime at the street below the safehouse of the day. This particular one is lousier than most; small, dirty, and very cluttered. Nat has these little nooks all over the place, little dots in foreign cities scattered around the world, so she always has somewhere they can crash and hide from whoever’s after them at the moment. Today it’s (unsurprisingly) a group of greedy mercenaries, possibly in the employ of the Ethiopian government. Indirectly (and likely not improbably) they’re in the employ of the US Government. In addition to hunting the ex-Avengers himself rabidly, Ross put bounties on their heads months ago, and that has every money-grubbing bad guy out there on their tail. According to T’Challa, Ross’ orders are shoot to kill for Sam, for Wanda, for Nat. 

Not for Steve, though. No, it’s pretty sadly obvious (and incredibly infuriating) that Ross wants Steve alive. The reasons behind that can’t be good, and Sam tries not to think about them (being worried and angry all the time sure as hell doesn’t help anyone). What’s more ironic about the whole mess, though, is the fact that the orders don’t seem to be doing much good. Sam supposes bringing Steve in alive does not necessarily equate to bringing Steve in unharmed, but, God, if he has to watch Steve getting shot or beaten up or overrun or cornered or hurtone more time… 

Like now. Sam sighs, spotting the bandage around Steve’s shoulder, wound tight over a red-stained t-shirt. “I should be asking you that,” he grumbled, turning back to the window. It’s stupid. The street’s quiet. It’s _been_ quiet since they holed up here. Nat was pretty sure at the time that they lost their tails, which was convenient considering Steve’s shoulder had been gushing. Sam’s been grateful for the super soldier serum more than he cares to admit, and this time was no exception. 

As evidenced by the fact that Steve’s up and walking around like he didn’t just take a butcher knife to the arm with nothing more to show for it than a bloody bandage. He’s here, and he’s asking this stupid question with a tentative smile on his face, like he’s completely aware of how tired Sam is of all of this. And that tempers Sam’s annoyance, because it’s not Steve’s fault. Yes, they’ve been on the run now for six months, and it’s been a hard six months. After Steve deposited Barnes in Wakanda and busted the rest of his team out of the Raft (Sam doesn’t like thinking about the long, dark, hopeless hours he and the others spent in that underwater hell), they went out on their own. There really wasn’t a choice. They were wanted criminals at home, with standing, active arrest warrants hanging over their heads that will surely be enforced the second they set foot back in the United States. So there is no going home. They could have stayed in Wakanda; T’Challa kindly and immediately offered. His generosity and hospitality are unparalleled. But Steve didn’t want to cause trouble, didn’t want to bring any heat down on Wakanda for harboring them. T’Challa has done – and is still doing – so much for them, so Sam understands that completely. 

But it’s made the last half of a year pretty terrible. Never in his wildest dreams did Sam ever imagine this as his life, on the run from the law with Captain America, but here they are. And it’s not enough just to try and stay ahead of Ross and his cohort. Keeping themselves safe is a struggle, but Steve doesn’t let it end there despite that. They’re still trying to do good and protect people and stop the bad guys, even while being hunted and smeared across the globe. It’s a hell of a difficult thing, particularly given their lack of support outside of what T’Challa can provide (and what Steve is willing to take). With or without his shield, Steve’s still Captain America. He’s still the best soldier, the best _hero,_ this world has ever known. Doing anything less than his absolute best to help innocents is not acceptable to him. 

That’s one of the reasons Sam has stuck by his side through all this unpleasantness. In the space of two years, he’s gone from being a war vet just doing what he can to aid other folks in the same boat down at the VA to stopping HYDRA from murdering millions to being an Avenger to becoming what people are calling a war criminal (which is bullshit – exactly what war crimes did he or anyone else on their side commit? By not agreeing to sign away their freedom, their bodies, their right to choose to the government, _that_ puts him on the same level of evil as genocidal dictators and terrorists? How the hell does that make sense? He tries not to think about this, either, because it really aggravates him and there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it). It’s been a massive transformation in his life. Throughout all that, though, Steve’s been really steady. A rock. And it’s not that he hasn’t been hurt or hasn’t lost his way a little. Whatever happened between him and Stark in Siberia… Well, it’s been getting to Steve something fierce. It’s deep, the pain he’s in, and constant, even though he’s been trying like mad to hide it. Living day in and day out practically out of each other’s pockets makes keeping secrets difficult. Steve likes to hide things, refuses to lean on anyone and all that, but Sam can tell losing whatever he has with Stark has wounded him and he’s bleeding inside. 

Aside from that, though, Steve’s been, well… _Steve._ They’ve been close friends (best friends, really, when Sam things about sentimental stuff like that) for more than two years now. That’s long enough for Sam to know beyond any doubt that all the tales about Captain America, the hero and the legend and the symbol… They’re really about Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers, who is _still_ fighting day in and day out and putting his life on the line for people who now hate him and cry for his arrest. Steve Rogers, who always manages a smile, even when this crappy situation seems unbearable. Steve Rogers, who always knows the right answer when it comes to tough choices, who always stays firm, who leads, even now when it’s just Sam and Nat. _Steve,_ who always puts everyone else first. 

Which is how he got hurt this time. They’re in Africa trying to stop a weapons sale between a lingering HYDRA cell and an arms dealer, which they did, but not before the mercs caught sight of them, which led to a pretty spectacular shitstorm. During all the chaos, Steve threw himself in between Nat and one of the mercs trying to take her by surprise. She got overwhelmed, and the bastard tried to put a hunting knife in her back. Sometimes Sam thinks Steve forgets he doesn’t have his shield anymore. Or the lack of the shield just highlights how much he uses his body as a shield, too, only there’s no vibranium to ease the blows. Regardless, he threw himself in the way, got his dumb ass stabbed, and proceeded to finish the fight like he wasn’t bleeding like a stuck pig all over. 

Sam swears he’s lost years off his life from stress ever since Steve lapped him on the National Mall, announcing “on your left” every time like the smug little shit he is. Said smugness isn’t there on his face now, though. He looks like a puppy who knows he’s done wrong and needs to regain favor, and it’s stupidly pathetic. “I’m fine. Already through bleedin’.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“It’s really okay,” Steve insists. Sam knows it is. It takes way more than one mercenary’s hunting knife to bring down Captain America. And, despite the cruddy conditions in which they’ve been living the last six months, Steve looks fine. Different, but okay. Long gone is the uniform, of course. He’s still wearing his Avengers suit, but it’s been ripped and damaged already. Nat suggested he paint it black; the stars and stripes are too obvious. Stark’s design didn’t take too well to the change, and the midsection still looks more red and white (well, brown and gray, Sam supposes), but it works. The change is symbolic more than anything else. So’s the longer hair Steve has as well as the beard he stopped bothering to shave when it became clear that consistent access to basic things like toiletries isn’t in the picture. He always looked the part of Captain America when they were Avengers, clean-cut and handsome, and now he looks the part of a fugitive vigilante. Nomad. That’s what Nat calls him on the radio to keep his identity hidden. 

Sam has a real hard time _not_ calling him Cap. 

Steve catches him staring, and Sam looks away. He sighs. “One of these days, it’s gonna be worse than the serum can fix, you know. And if we’re not close to Wakanda–” 

“Don’t worry,” Steve says, and Sam knows that he knows that’s not happening. They all worry almost all the time. He nods toward the flight suit still on Sam’s back. “Wanna take that off? Bed down? Nat said she’ll take watch.” 

Sam’s still too keyed up from the fight (and almost seeing his best friend get himself murdered), but he sighs and nods. No sense in not resting while they can. He quickly undoes the straps and snaps of his wings. Steve watches uneasily. “That problem still happening?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says on a long breath. He runs a hand over the right engine on the flight suit. “I think the power coupling’s wearing. Not that I know much about this stuff.” He doesn’t miss the flash of pain and grief in Steve’s eyes, so he doesn’t say what he was about to. It’s the same thing all the time, and Steve knows it. Without Stark, it’s hard to maintain their equipment, Sam’s in particular. Stark designed the Falcon suit. He built it and tested it and perfected it. His tech powered it. So when it breaks, they have nothing to repair it, not the know-how nor the supplies. It’s devastating to Sam. This suit is what makes him useful on this team. It’s what makes him Falcon. Without it… 

The look on Steve’s face says it all, what Sam won’t say about Stark, what he fears about himself. Sam brushes it all aside. “It’s fine. Works well enough.” 

Steve gives a soft, knowing smile. “Alright.” 

Sam lets it go for now and sets his stuff to an old, musty pallet in the corner beside the window. He doesn’t take off the guns he wears all the time, one in a holster on his hip and another strapped around his calf. He knows Nat also always has enough weapons stashed on her person to arm a company of soldiers, so that’s a comfort. Steve still never carries a gun. Sam wishes he would. 

“Brought us something.” 

Steve’s quiet declaration brings him out of his thoughts, and he turns around to see the other man pulling out something he’s been hiding behind his back. “What’s that?” 

Steve’s grin turns a tad devious. “Thanksgiving dinner?” he offers. 

That… _hurts._ Sam didn’t expect it to, so just how sharp and awful it is shocks him. The surprise and pain clearly makes it to his face. Steve frowns in concern. “You okay? We don’t have to if you want to sleep.” 

Sam jerks, ignoring the mess in his heart, and puts on a strong face and a bright smile. “No, I want to. I definitely do. What you got?” 

That seems to appease Steve. He comes over, bearing his treasure trove of treats. Of course, “treats” is a rather liberal term. It’s a couple extra MREs that Nat took from one of her old SHIELD safehouses and some Wakandan dried fruit and meat. In other words, it’s the same stuff they’ve been eating for months now. Not that Sam’s not grateful, but every time T’Challa’s supplies find their way to them, he wishes for just a bit of home, for something that tastes familiar and _good_ to him. “No turkey?” he quips, trying to hide his hurt again and probably failing. 

“Sorry,” Steve offers. Sam can’t tell if he picked up on how low he’s feeling. “Did get this, though. Found it in the back room where Nat patched me up.” He pulls a bottle of wine from bag. It’s dusty; obviously it’s been here a while. It looks like a red of some sort. Sam squints at the label in the crappy lighting. It’s not in English, so he can’t read it even if he could see it better. “It’s got our names on it. Clearly.” Steve offers another sly grin. 

That makes Sam feel like a bit better. “Sure does.” 

They settle down on the dirty floor, leaning up against some dusty, ugly old boxes. Steve gets their meal out and spreads it around. He rips free the few MREs and opens up the bags containing the food from Wakanda. Then he takes the bottle and pulls a screw from the sack. He twists that into the cork for leverage and works the bottle open with his bare hands. Sam watches, really glad Steve didn’t crack the glass. Steve smirks and hands Sam the bottle. “Cheers?” 

Sam gives him a wan look but takes the wine all the same. He tips it towards him. “Cheers, man.” He takes a sizeable sip. It’s a little drier than he usually likes, but it’s the first taste of alcohol he’s had in forever, so before he’s thinking twice, he’s chugging down a couple mouthfuls like it’s water. When he turns back to Steve, he finds a pair of blue eyes watching him worriedly. “What?” 

Steve frowns. “You really okay?” 

Sam has to consider that. He’s about to tell Steve he’s fine. Hell, Steve’s had it just as bad, if not worse, than he has, and Steve doesn’t need to worry about him. And he is fine. Getting all maudlin over missing home is silly. He’s been away more times than he cares to remember between his tours overseas and his time at school before that. This is dumb, and he’s not going to go into it. 

So instead he reaches for a piece of Wakandan dried meat from the bag Steve opened. He takes it, chews it. The familiar (yet still somehow so _un_ familiar) spicy taste hits him, and that’s stupidly enough to get him to ignore the oath he just made to himself and admit to the truth. “Didn’t think it’d be so hard, you know?” 

It’s silent for a moment. Sam doesn’t have it in him to elaborate. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to. “What was it like back home?” Steve asks, taking a drink from the bottle himself. He hands it back to Sam. “You guys have a big dinner each year?” 

Sam nods. “Well, back in the day. Before Daddy died. We used to…” He hesitates a second, like indulging in the memory may be too painful, but he can’t stop himself now that’s started. “We used to have everyone over. A dozen cousins. Daddy had a huge family, and they were all real close, and every Thanksgiving they’d cram into our little place. Everyone was welcome, neighbors too. Nobody ever had to spend the holiday alone, let me tell you. Southern hospitality… Nothing compares. And Mama’d make enough food to feed an army. And I ain’t saying she just made a lot of food, because your version of ‘a lot’ and New Orleans’ version… They’re not the same.” Then Sam chuckles. “Then again, look who I’m talking to.” 

Steve eats a ton. Sam noticed that about him instantly, the first morning Steve and Nat crashed at his house when they were on the run from SHIELD. The guy puts it away like crazy. It’s the serum, driving his metabolism so much faster than normal, but not for the first time Sam wonders if Steve’s been hungry all the months they’ve been fugitives. And he wonders at what he’s doing. _Look at who I’m talking to._ “Dude, I shouldn’t be whining to you about Thanksgiving. Shouldn’t be complaining at all.” 

“Why?” Steve shakes his head. “Not like I have a corner on the ‘homesickness’ market.” Sam gives him a wan look, because he sure as hell does. Steve gives a tight smile. “I don’t. That’s not how it works. What I say and feel isn’t any more or less valid than anyone else.” 

“Steve–” 

“We were poor, Sam,” Steve replies, like Sam doesn’t know that. Steve doesn’t talk much about his life before the big thaw, before the serum. Sam knows the basics like everyone else. Poor, sick kid growing up on the tough, Depression-era Brooklyn streets. His father died when he was a baby. It was just him and his mother during his childhood, and he was orphaned before he even graduated high school. “And we were Irish in a time when people weren’t so welcoming. My mother did the best she could to make it special, you know. And it was. She always found a way.” His smile tightens a bit with emotions he doesn’t share. He moves past it quickly. “How about yours?” 

Sam doesn’t push him. Somehow the opportunity to talk about home is too alluring to ignore. “Mama’s always cooking this time of year. Her cooking, man. Wow. Daddy used to say the saints blessed her in the kitchen, and he was sure right about that. You gotta understand: Thanksgiving, man, that was a whole _week_ at our place. She’d make a pie every day, pecan and peach and apple and pumpkin. And every night she’d make something real special. Gumbo. Jambalaya. Étouffée. Red beans and rice.” 

“Never had any of that,” Steve admits, taking a bite out of some dried fruit. He regards it glumly. 

“You never been to New Orleans?” Sometimes when he talks about home, his accent slips in. So much time away has tempered it some, so much so that even he notices it sometimes. 

Like he notices Steve’s Brooklyn accent sometimes, too. Steve grins. “Not really. The USO Show stopped there… 1943? Maybe? But it’s not like I got to go out and experience the city.” 

“Dude, you missed out,” Sam says before taking another big gulp from the bottle. He passes it back to Steve. “Seriously.” 

“No kiddin’,” Steve replies. He takes a swig. “We were even there during Mardi Gras.” Sam grunts, shaking his head. “But selling war bonds was more important. They needed me on the move.” 

“The irony.” Sam grins. 

Steve grins, too. Captain America, once the poster boy for the American war effort, and now a wanted war criminal, very literally on the run from his own government. Steve takes another drink of wine. He swallows and sighs. “Always wanted to go to Louisiana, even before I met you. Sounds like a kickin’ place.” 

“Oh, it is. We’re survivors there. Swampland, but roots go deep. See, my family? We’ve lived in the same, like, five-mile area since my parents settled there after the Civil War. They came down from Mississippi, and my forefathers worked in the bayou, and there we planted. Generations deep. My daddy and his daddy and his and his. Ain’t never left. I was one of the only ones that did.” 

“Home is home, huh?” Steve offers with a knowing smile. 

Sam chuckles, thinking about it. Their little house with its old green paint and white shutters, cramped but homey. The porch and Mama’s flowers and the cracked cement sidewalk. The humid air, so tight on you it’s like a second skin. Sweat tickling your upper lip. The way the whole neighborhood would get together when the aroma of a good meal rose high over the houses. The smell of cigars and spice and his Mama’s perfume. “Yeah,” he answers after a moment. “Always is.” 

He can feel Steve’s eyes on him, feel his friend’s gentle worry. Sam pulls himself from the warm embrace of his memories again. He sniffles. “Big deal, Thanksgiving. She’d cook and cook. When I was little, I used to help her. Peel potatoes. Get the shrimp ready. Roll out the beignets.” 

“Beignets?” Steve asks. 

“Oh, man,” Sam says, knocking his friend with his shoulder. “You ain’t lived till you had one of my Mama’s beignets. Gone as soon as she put ’em out. She made them with crayfish right in the batter… Heaven.” Steve smiles. “And her sweet ones? Melt in your mouth, like molten sugar and butter.” 

“Sounds amazin’.” 

“It was. It is! Last time I was there… Well, after Daddy passed, things have quieted down some. Family’s still there, but my cousins… A lot of them settled down. Got their own kids now. Still in the area, mind, but they’re doing their own things. And Mama’s been alone more.” 

“How long’s he been gone?” asks Steve softly. 

Sam sniffles again. He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much now. “Almost ten years. Kinda dumb, but I… I’ve been trying to make it home to her whenever I can.” 

“I know.” Sam glances at his friend. Surely he does know. Sam went home last year and the year before, leaving the Avengers complex for the holiday. They all went their own ways. Steve stayed behind in upstate New York those years, claiming he had work to do. He promised he wouldn’t be alone. Sam didn’t much care for that at the time, but Steve seemed alright with it. Nat was around once, opting to stay with their captain rather than visiting Clint’s family, and both times… Well, Stark was there, too. Both times. 

Steve’s eyes are deep with concern. “And she’s alone this time.” 

Hearing that snaps Sam from his thoughts. The pain comes back. “Yeah,” he murmurs, biting the inside of his cheek hard. Not being able to go back this year… He grabs more to eat just to chew. “Yeah. I, uh… Well, she knows.” Of course Mama does. Sam hasn’t been able to talk to her since before the whole mess with the Accords. T’Challa swore to him when they left Wakanda that he would find a way to let their families know they were okay. That only really applied to him; Steve and Nat have no one outside their group (well, Steve has Barnes, but Barnes is back in cryostasis, and Steve never talks about it). So Mama’s aware enough of the situation. 

Unsurprisingly that doesn’t make anything any easier. “She knows. But…” Sam doesn’t finish. He doesn’t know how to put words to the heartache. Honestly it’s been gnawing at him since they were forced into this situation, only he’s been able to ignore it thus far. Now… “Guess I didn’t realize it’d be this hard to be away for the holidays.” Embarrassment comes fast, and Sam grunts, looking away and grabbing even more to stuff into his trap. “Stupid.” 

Steve’s still watching him. “No.” 

“A grown ass man missing his Mama on the holidays,” Sam grumbles. “You got a better word for it?” 

“Sure. Normal.” Sam can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Hey, bein’ homesick… It’s not anything to be ashamed of. And I know that’s valid. I know.” 

That makes the pain just a little bit better somehow. Sam relaxes, glancing at his friend as Steve smiles at him. They hold each other’s eyes a moment, but Steve looks away after a bit. He eats in silence, contemplative. Sam takes another drink of wine before digging into a tasteless, utilitarian MRE. He chews just to get it down. “She’ll be _all_ alone?” Steve finally asks, even though he just said that. It’s like the mere thought is intolerable. His voice is quieter, more solemn. “Without you there?” 

Just like that, Sam aches all over again. “Nah,” he says dismissively, but he’s not sure if it’s a lie. “She’ll go to the neighbors or to my dad’s family. Mama’s resourceful. She’ll take care of herself.” 

Steve’s gaze deepens even more with grief and regret. “I’m sorry,” he says. There’s a lot behind those two words. This isn’t the first time Steve’s apologized for what’s happened. He’s done it plenty of times over the last six months. Steve holds himself personally responsible for a lot of what broke the team apart. It’s not his fault. He did what he thought was best with Barnes, with the threat from Zemo, with the Accords. Sam still stands by not signing those damn things, and he will until they cart him off to his grave. His refusal to surrender his freedom and liberty was his own. Again, though, whatever happened in Siberia between Steve and Stark… A lot of the times when Steve’s apologizing, Sam knows his guilt and grief is tied up in that. 

Steve shakes his head. He’s got the wine bottle again, and he tips it to the side to see the dark liquid slosh inside. “I’m real sorry, Sam. I know it’s rough. Bein’ here like this…” 

“There’s no place like home for the holidays?” Sam offers. He means it as a joke, but it comes out weaker and more forced than he can stand. Steve’s grin is just as strained and sorrowful. They’ve made a lot of sacrifices and lost a great deal, but sometimes the smallest things hurt the worst. It’s like that little touch of pain after you’ve been hurt really badly, that little wound that should be easy to shrug off but simply becomes too much to bear. And it’s stupid, just as he said before, but there’s no denying just how true and valid it is. It’s Thanksgiving, and he’s thousands of miles from home, from the dinner he’s always enjoyed and his old room and his family. No turkey. No stuffing or potatoes or pies. No beignets. No hug from Mama that speaks volumes of just how much she loves him, just how much he’s still her little boy no matter how big he gets. That smarts something fierce tonight. 

And that’s not even considering that Christmas is just around the corner. 

Eventually Sam pulls himself free of his melancholy and sniffles. “Well,” he says, reaching over to take the wine bottle from Steve again, “I guess if I gotta be so far away on Thanksgiving and in this completely crappy situation, I’m glad it’s with you.” 

Clearly Steve wasn’t expecting the compliment, or for it to be offered so openly and sincerely. It’s genuinely heartfelt, and his friend’s eyes are warm and appreciative. “I guess,” he finally replies with a big grin and a brotherly nudge. 

They don’t talk more, just sitting in a companionable silence, munching on their feast and finishing off the bottle of wine between them. It’s the closest Sam’s felt to home in ages. 

* * *

Christmas is right around the corner. 

It arrives just like any other day. This is how it is when you’re on the run but still trying to do the job you used to have. Everyday it’s another mission, another fight, and then another close escape from the people trying to capture you. Holidays tend to sneak up on you, and even when you notice them, it’s just to mark the passage of time and explain the pain that comes from realizing that you’re here when you should be somewhere else. 

It’s so late at this point that it’s morning, Christmas Eve morning. Sam’s not sleeping. No, he’s trying to rewire the faulty power coupling in his jet pack’s engine again. He’s got the engine all spread open on his cot, and he’s elbow deep in its wiring, tools haphazardly arranged around him. This time their safehouse is in Turkey. It’s a nicer one thankfully, somewhat well-stocked and actually kind of spacious, so he has his own room for once. That’s good, because he wants to work in privacy and that hasn’t been too easy of late. He doesn’t really want Nat or Steve noticing just how bad the situation with his suit is getting. He knows that’s stupid as hell, but there’s something inside him that just won’t let him be honest about the damage. Like they’d care or think less of him. Like it’s some sort of reflection on him. It’s so dumb that he’s almost ashamed just thinking it. 

That sense of ridiculous stupidity is amplified by the fact that he’s seriously exhausted. He hasn’t slept in a real bed in a while, so the crappy cot he’s using as a workbench should have been a glorious gift. And he knows he needs the rest, particularly after the strenuous raid they performed earlier that day. The three of them shut down another illegal weapons sale, leaving the group of terrorists trying to offload the dangerous goods bound and incapacitated and delivering the missiles themselves safely and anonymously to the Turkish authorities. Their little team prevailed yet again, prevented the bad guys from getting their way, but it’s been an extremely long day, and Sam’s ready to collapse. 

Yet he’s here, pouring over his jet pack in cruddy light, and he has been for the better part of a few hours. He’s still trying to repair that same broken part. It’s just not happening. He thinks he’s isolated the wiring that’s gone south, found the wear and tear that’s causing the malfunction, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. When he was a kid, he dabbled in this stuff just a little. Daddy was an electrician for thirty years working for the city, so Sam’s got just enough know-how to be frustrated that he doesn’t actually know enough to get anything done. He’s working on this with renewed fervor because his suit momentarily failed during the fight and he very nearly got himself killed. It’s really starting to be a problem, and he’s got to find a way to fix it. 

That’s a laugh riot. He probably couldn’t manage that with better tools in an actual workshop and with actual help, let alone here with a smorgasbord of mismatched screwdrivers, poor light, and no one to guide him other than his own exhausted inner monologue. 

Beggars can’t be choosers, he supposes. 

He’s so deep into his own thoughts that a knock at the door takes him by surprise. He jerks, nearly stabs himself with a screwdriver, before blinking away the bleariness and getting himself together. He closes the back panel of his suit and quickly puts his tools away. “Come in.” It’s Steve, of course. “Hey,” Sam greets. “What’s up?” 

Steve’s smile is tight. Grim. “Duty calls,” he says. 

Sam grimaces. “Seriously? I thought we decided to take the next couple days off. Get some R&R?” Not that R&R exists out here, but any chance to snag some extra downtime has to be taken. “It’s Christmas, for crying out loud.” 

“Same old, same old,” Steve replies with a tired frown. “The bad guy scum of the world doesn’t care what day it is.” 

Obnoxious but sadly true. Sam sighs. So much for taking a few minutes to try and do something about this power regulator, and so much for sleep. He stands, and after sitting there for so long joints pop uncomfortably. “Where’re we going this time?” He turns back and notices that Steve’s not in his uniform. He’s dressed in black jeans and a gray sweater under a black coat. “What’s the target?” 

“Nat’s waiting with the jet,” Steve answers instead. “I’ll tell you more en route.” Sam nods and reaches for his flight suit. “Shouldn’t need that.” 

That stays Sam’s hand. Quizzically he regards his friend. “Seriously?” 

Steve nods. “We’re keeping a low profile on this one. A really low profile.” 

That explains the lack of Steve’s combat suit. It’s not the first time they’ve had to sneak into and out of a place to avoid being spotted or tracked, which probably means they’re heading somewhere more on the beaten path than they have of late. Sam sighs, grabbing for his guns and getting them stashed on himself. He catches a strange look that Steve gives him and doesn’t quite know what to make out of it. “Something wrong?” 

“No,” Steve says. He smiles genuinely. “Hopefully you won’t need those, either.” 

“Oh, these perps are into conversation rather than trying to blast us to pieces? That’d be a first. A Christmas miracle.” Steve’s grin gets weaker. “Alright. Let’s kick it?” 

Steve claps him on the shoulder as he passes. “No rest for the weary.” Sam grunts at that. Truer words have never been spoken. Together they head out of bedroom and down the dark, narrow hallways of this little bunker. It’s tucked into a hillside far enough outside of the city not to draw attention. Sam figures it was a militia outpost of some sort; it’s spartan, drab, and gray, with a good view of the land around them. SHIELD (or just Nat – Sam’s never sure how much she did with their blessing and how much she just stole) obviously took the place over and left it full of weapons, medical supplies, and food. It’s a veritable treasure trove, a five-star hotel loaded with luxury compared to most of their other accommodations. 

And the coolest part is there’s a great place right outside to hide the quinjet. That’s been one of the hardest tasks to manage since they fled Wakanda. The quinjet is big and well-known worldwide. Steve didn’t feel so great about taking it, but there was really no choice. After Siberia, he and Sam spent some time in Wakanda painting over the Avengers logos (Steve was stiff and silent the entire time). Despite their efforts, keeping the jet from the public eye (and thus the eyes of those tracking them) while using it to fight evil itself is difficult. Right now the aircraft is tucked between two rocky hills and hidden further by a few ledges. Unless someone comes here look specifically, they won’t see it. 

Nat’s already prepped the jet for flight. The engines are humming and the wings are unfolded. It’s a tight fit between the rocks, but Sam knows Nat can handle the difficult take-off. The ramp’s lowered and waiting for them, and Steve wastes no time jogging across the way. Sam follows, and the second they’re both aboard, Steve’s raising the ramp and Sam’s heading to the cockpit. Nat’s there in the pilot’s chair. She gives him a nod. “Hey.” 

“Hey, Romanoff,” Sam greets. “Bah Humbug.” 

“Pretty much,” Nat grouses, pushing some hair behind her ear as she taps a few places on the flight console. She dyed her hair a few months back. Sam thought it was incredibly weird at first to see all that vibrant, gorgeous red hair replaced with a pale, nearly platinum blonde, but he’s warmed up to the look since. Nat herself has been quiet since the team fell apart, quiet and contemplative and very protective of Steve, of both of them. She started out on Stark’s side because she thought signing the Accords would preserve their family. Somewhere during all the chaos, the fight in Germany at the airport and the Raft, she realized the divide was too wide to overcome simply through force and hope, and she realigned her loyalties with Steve. She helped Steve bust Sam and the others out of the Raft after helping Steve and Barnes steal the quinjet in Leipzig. There are very few people in the world Sam trusts as much as her. 

She grins slyly. “You two ready to get this show on the road? We got places to be.” 

“On Christmas?” Sam questions again, trying to keep his tone light. “We should be finding ourselves some eggnog and pouring as much brandy as we can into it.” He went to ready the jet’s weapons systems. “Finding some chestnuts, getting that open fire going…” 

“We’re on Santa’s naughty list, I guess,” Nat replies dryly, turning to wink at Steve. _Or the US government’s at least._ “Let’s move it.” 

Without a word, they all work together to get underway, and in a matter of seconds, everything is stowed and the jet is rising into the air. Nat throttles the engines up and Sam can feel the aircraft powering over the mountains. He heads to the back to check their weapons stores and munitions. They have to have guns, no matter what Steve thinks. They’ve yet to encounter people on this adventure who haven’t tried to capture or kill them, and that’s not likely to change today just because it’s Christmas, all joking aside. He glances at Steve where Steve leans over the back of the pilot chair. He’s murmuring to Nat, probably talking about the mission. Sam can’t hear what they’re saying. He should get up there and figure out what their objectives are, but right then he just can’t summon the energy. All the depression from Thanksgiving suddenly feels worse, bigger, and more unavoidable. Working on Christmas. _Ha._ This brings a whole new meaning to that concept. He thinks about that, about how it was to be overseas for the holidays when he was serving in Afghanistan, about how that didn’t feel as raw and hopeless as this. He’s not sure why that is. That was a war. 

_But a_ _t least then you had a home to go back to._

He catches Steve looking back at him over his shoulder. There’s something unreadable in Steve’s eyes, the usual pain, grief, and worry, sure, but something else after a blink. Something oddly warm and almost excited. Nat says something quiet but stern, and Steve rips his gaze back. Sam can almost picture him flushing with embarrassment, ears burning and color high on his cheeks, and that doesn’t make a lick of sense. What does Steve have to be embarrassed about? 

_Get it together, Wilson._ Resignedly, Sam heads back to the cockpit, steadying himself as the jet shudders with a bit of turbulence. “So what’s the plan?” he asks as he leans against the bulkhead near the cockpit. “Where are we headed?” 

“Mexico,” Nat simply and immediately replies. Steve seems a little surprised, like he didn’t think she’d be so candid. That’s also weird. 

But not as weird as her answer itself. Sam does a bit of a double-take. “Mexico? As in, south of the US – that Mexico?” 

Nat quirks another mischievous grin like there’s some kind of inside joke here as she grips the flight controls. She banks a little as if she just wants them to be jolted. “You know of another one?” 

Sam grunts again, not amused. “Who are we facing? Is it HYDRA? AIM?” 

“We’re not sure yet,” Nat says. The jet’s escaping the cover of the mountain range now. She reaches up to flip the switches for its stealth technology. That’s another area where Stark’s inventions are failing. The stealth tech makes getting around so much easier, but not when the exterior, reflective panels are malfunctioning and the system won’t engage properly half the time. Sam can see Nat hold her breath while the computer works, waiting and probably praying, and her shoulders sink a little in relief when everything comes online. “You guys will be meeting an operative near the border.” 

That sounds… unusual. “An operative?” Sam shakes his head. “Who?” 

Steve heaves a bit of a sigh. “Don’t know. The contact didn’t supply a name. We talked briefly over an old SHIELD radio frequency.” 

This is getting weirder and weirder. Sam can’t recall the last time they really worked with an independent third party aside from T’Challa, let alone one this shrouded in mystery. And let alone someone from SHIELD. He looks between Steve and Nat. “And you’re… okay with that?” 

Steve gives half a shrug. “Yeah. It’s SHIELD.” 

“It’s SHIELD,” Sam repeats, shaking his head. “You’re trusting someone affiliated with SHIELD.” 

Steve clasps his shoulder again. “This time,” he says, and that’s freaking cryptic. 

Sam winces, rattled. “And what’s this guy supposed to tell us?” 

“All we know right now is the op’s across the border.” Nat’s words are even more alarming. Across the border? They’re actually going to go _into_ the United States? That’s just… They would never risk that unless the threat’s really serious, and neither Steve nor Nat is acting like it is. Something’s up, but they’re not… agitated. Or extremely worried. Or all that determined. Sam’s seen them when the world’s at risk, and this isn’t that. 

So what the hell? 

“Don’t worry,” Nat says, drawing Sam’s attention from his flustered, confused thoughts. “It’ll be obvious when we get there.” 

Okay… This whole thing is just bizarre. Sam grimaces again, trying to make sense of what little he knows, but it’s hard because he’s just too tired. Steve gives him a sympathetic smile. “It’s gonna take a couple hours to cross the Atlantic. You want to sleep?” 

Sam just stares for a second. That… seems like a good idea? Maybe all this doubt is just a byproduct of days without decent rest, so Steve’s right. He should catch some shut-eye while they fly. It’s all good. Steve and Nat know what they’re doing, so flying back to the US… Yeah, it’s great. “Sure,” he hears himself say. He snaps out of another fatigued trance. “Yeah. Sleep is good.” 

A couple minutes later, he finds himself in one of the back seats in the jet’s fuselage. Steve and Nat are still up ahead, talking quietly again and paying attention to the flight. Steve glances back at him once, like he’s making sure Sam’s settled, and Sam offers a tired smile. He closes his eyes and tries not to think. He still can’t really hear what the two of them are saying, but he’s too beaten down to care. There’s just one thing in his head. 

It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas, and he _can’t_ be with Mama, can’t go back home. It shouldn’t be bothering him so much, but, yet again, _it is_. Maybe the mindset he let himself get into over Thanksgiving is making it easier to fall now, but whatever it is, he feels just plain lousy. He really didn’t lie to Steve about Mama being alone a few weeks back per se, but the point is: he’s not there. He’s _been_ there almost every year of his life, Thanksgiving and Christmas, and now he’s not. It just… 

… _sucks._

But there’s nothing anyone can do, so allowing himself to get all upset about it is just plain dumb. Mama always said that, from the time he was a little boy all the way until now. _“Don’t be troubling yourself over things you can’t change. Let it be.”_ He told himself her words over and over again when Riley died, trying to find strength in patience and acceptance. It worked a lot back then, but it’s not now, not when it’s Mama herself who he’s missing so badly. 

Eventually, as the jet reaches cruising altitude, exhaustion beats out stewing, and he falls asleep. He starts dreaming, and, predictably, it’s about Christmas. It’s more a memory than anything else. Waking up Christmas morning before the sun’s even really up, the gray of early dawn dousing everything so that nothing looks quite real. Sneaking out of bed and going down the short hallway to the living room, where the tree was all lit up. Finding the cookies they left out were gone, sugar snaps and gingerbread and pecan meringues. Seeing the presents under there in their shiny paper and ribbons and bows. His parents were working class, blue collar, so Christmas was never extravagant, but they always provided. He didn’t realize how important that was until he was a little older, when he stopped believing in Santa and started appreciating just how much they did for him. At this tender age, though, in this perfect memory… 

He’s young, and the magic is real, and there are toys from Santa waiting for him. He always lines his gifts up, separating them into his own pile and before doing the same to theirs, making sure everything’s ready for when his parents wake up and come in the room, for when his Daddy cries _“Merry Christmas, Sammy!”_ and holds him with his big, warm hands and his Mama calls him a little brat with a huge smile and kiss for perusing his gifts before it’s time to open, for when they all gather around the tree and unwrap the gifts one by one… 

It’s so simple, but he loves it. He cherishes the childhood memories of being together. 

Therefore he indulges in the dream, sleeping deeply enough not to notice the quinjet bounce through turbulence every so often but not so far down that he doesn’t realize what’s in his head is not real. It’s just a little gift to himself, picturing Daddy’s wise brown eyes and huge smile, Mama’s slight form but arms that are so strong and sure. They were so proud of him for growing up right even if the opportunities didn’t always come easy, for going to the Air Force academy and excelling, for serving his nation and flying so high, far, and fast. And Mama was – maybe still is – thrilled he became an Avenger. That’s the highest rank a soldier can get in her book, protecting the whole world with earth’s mightiest heroes. She told him that when he saw her after SHIELD collapsed, when he came back to tell her he was moving to New York to join the team. That he was working with Captain America and Iron Man and walking this new and exciting path few ever can. _“You did_ _good_ _, Sam. I’m so proud.”_

He never imagined that path would lead him here. 

_I’ll be home for Christmas… If only in my dreams._

He smiles at his own sad joke, and the irony stirs him from his sleep. Lazily he cracks open his eyes. Someone put a blanket on him, and it has to have been Steve. Nat’s probably still flying the jet. Sam’s not sure how much time has passed, but he can feel the cabin’s pressurized and the light vibrations from the engines. They’re not there yet. 

Steve’s sitting on the bench across the way, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He’s not looking at him. No, he’s holding something in his hands, something he’s slowly turning around and around, almost nervously fiddling with it. It takes Sam’s sleepy mind a moment to realize it’s the flip phone. The phone that’s one half of a pair. The phone that matches the one he sent to Stark right before they left Wakanda. Steve’s staring at it, watching the way his own fingers slide over the cheap, molded plastic of the gray exterior. He’s a million miles away, blue eyes glazed and full of sorrow in a way Sam hasn’t seen too often. That pain again. It’s close to the surface. Sam blinks away the haze of sleep and sits up. “You okay, man?” 

Steve jerks. He nearly drops the phone. “Yeah,” he gasps once he gathers himself. He stands, and the phone goes into his jacket pocket. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

He doesn’t seem it. Sam frowns. He’s been so consumed with his own junk that it didn’t occur to him that Steve may not be feeling so great today, either. Just because he has no other family or loved ones doesn’t mean he’s not sad or depressed about the holidays being spent on the run. Before Sam can say anything, though, Steve smiles and drops down a hand to help him up. “We should get ready. We’re landing in ten.” 

Sam grips his hand and stands. He stretches, feeling much better for having slept. Nudging Steve on the shoulder, he heads to the cockpit after putting the blanket aside. Sure enough, Nat’s beginning their descent over Mexico. Sam watches the dark landscape ahead of them. Due to the time difference, it’s just past midnight on the 24th. “Feliz Navidad,” he mumbles. 

“This isn’t exactly Santa’s sleigh,” Nat comments. She turns to him and offers another sly grin. “Bucket of red paint probably would have done the trick.” 

“Yeah, because this isn’t noticeable enough,” Sam says. “How’re we gonna land without being seen? And what about hiding the jet?” 

“We’ll do it the same way we always manage,” says Nat quite matter-of-factly. “Choosing somewhere remote. There’s a place not too far from the border south of Texas. It’s one Clint used when he used to run ops in Mexico. SHIELD had him working with the DEA for a bit when he started. Been a while since any of us have been there, but he always kept a car there in case he needed it.” 

“Wait. You talked to Clint?” Nat hasn’t been able to much at all, not with Clint under house arrest in accordance with the deal he made with the Feds to return to the States. Every communication Clint has with _anyone_ is tracked at the moment. 

She shrugs. “Maybe.” 

Okay, this is just getting ridiculous. “For a spy, you’re doing a surprisingly crappy job at hiding something.” Nat grins. “What’s going on?” 

Her grin slips just like that. She’s so good at wearing masks, at slipping between personas and demeanors and façades, that even after years at her side sometimes Sam can’t read her. “It’s need to know, Wilson. You don’t need to know, okay? Might jeopardize the whole mission if you do.” 

That comes out of left field. Sam really doesn’t appreciate it, clenching his jaw and glancing at Steve. Steve just shrugs. “Unfortunately, we’ve got to play our hands close to our chest on this one. It’s integral to our success.” 

“But I don’t see why I can’t–” 

“Just trust me on this, Sam,” Steve says, not unkindly but firmly. “It’s better if you don’t.” 

_What the hell?_ This is just plain aggravating. Sam wants to believe what Steve says, but even on their most difficult and dangerous missions so far since they’ve been friends, Steve has _always_ kept him in the loop. What’s different about this time? Was this mission _that_ important, so secret and perilous that the mere fact of him knowing the details is a risk? That’s just… hurtful. And it shouldn’t be, but when he’s been tied at the hip with someone for a couple years, his _partner_ for crying out loud, this is like a slap to Sam’s pride. Never mind the years he spent as a soldier following orders without being aware of the situation necessarily. He and Steve are way beyond those roles. “Alright,” he finally says, and that sounds irritated, but he doesn’t care much. 

Regret flashes through Steve’s eyes but just for a second. “Anyway, Nat’s gonna drop us. She’ll be ready for extraction when we’re done.” 

“And when will that be?” 

“Few days.” 

_“A few days?”_ Sam is completely incredulous. That would be because this is totally insane. “We’re going to be hiding in the US for a few days and no one is going to notice?” 

“That’s the plan. We’ll take the car and drive to the border and meet our contact.” 

“How are we going to cross?” Sam says, and again his tone is sharper than he wants. 

“Our contact’s going to handle that,” Steve explains. 

“And you trust that,” Sam says, again harsh with doubt. 

“Sam,” Steve says, and now his tone is a bit sharper. “Trust me. Please.” 

Sam stares at his friend before sighing. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Steve. God, that can’t be farther from the truth. He’d follow Steve to the ends of the earth if Steve asked. It’s just he feels so tired and low and _off_ with all the nonsense about Christmas and missing home. Still, this can’t be about his feelings. He’s a soldier. It’s work, same as any other op, and he knows his role. He knows Steve has it in hand. Steve hasn’t led them astray yet. “Alright. But I reserve the right to give you crap later if we end up spending Christmas in jail.” _Or worse._

Steve grins. “Noted.” 

“Coming up in two minutes,” Nat declares, and Sam can see on the navigation screen the tiny red blip in the middle of a sea of empty black. The location looks like it’s about an hour’s drive from the US border, south and too far away from any established Mexican towns to attract much attention. That’s good, he supposes. Annoyed, he goes to get another couple guns and stash them under his coat. If he doesn’t have his flight suit, he’ll take whatever weapons he can find. Steve’s not taking any, instead stuffing a couple flashlights, a small roll of United States dollar bills, and a pair of binoculars into a backpack. Sam grits his teeth, praying they’re not wandering into some sort of trap. 

A couple minutes later, Nat’s bringing the jet down. She has to disengage the stealth tech to switch from forward flight to hovering, which is always a major risk. Not to mention it’s really obvious to anyone watching, given the huge amount of sand and dust the rotors are kicking up as the jet floats above the desert. And the noise. Sam’s been around helicopters for years and years; as a pararescue airman, he’s intimately familiar with how loud they are. The quinjet’s not that bad, but it’s still bad. 

Therefore, Nat’s in a hurry to get them out and get away. “Good luck!” she calls from the cockpit as Steve lowers the rear ramp. She gives a warm but slightly worried smile. “And Merry Christmas!” 

“Ha,” Sam says, watching the ramp go down and Steve jump the four or five feet to the ground. He stuffs his annoyance and offers her a small smile in return. “Merry Christmas.” 

She nods and orders, “Keep an eye on him.” 

_Always do._ Sam jumps down, hits the ground hard, and a second later, the quinjet is rapidly rising. Once it’s aloft, it disappears in a quiet, almost magical, shimmer of light. Then all Sam can see are the stars, crystal clear and sparkling, against the inky backdrop of the sky. There’s no one for miles. All around them, the desert is utterly silent, rock and sand and rough vegetation dotting the ragged hills, but it’s surprisingly apropos and very peaceful. He looks around, blanketed by starlight, and can’t help but smile. 

“What?” Steve asks, standing at his side. 

“Kinda feel like a wise man,” Sam comments. “Out here in the desert, under the stars, following the Star of Bethlehem on an important mission… We delivering a gift or something?” 

Steve’s smile is warm and heartfelt. “Somethin’ like that. Come on.” 

The sound of their shoes crunching across the dry ground is incredibly loud as they head to the little building behind them. The safehouse is more like a safeshack, little more than a hut that looks dilapidated, lonely, and abandoned. Obviously Clint hasn’t been here in years, maybe longer, which makes sense given Nat’s description. Behind the ramshackle place, there’s a barn-like structure, just as broken-down and wind-worn. Steve leads Sam on an overgrown path lined by withered fences. Sam’s senses go on high alert naturally; they always do whenever they’re out in the open or in a new place, and this is both. The wide expanse of desert that felt awe-inspiring and like a precious scene from an old Christmas tale mere seconds ago now feels like nothing but dangerous. He’s looking around constantly, listening intently, trying to detect any sign of anyone approaching. 

But it’s quiet and they’re as alone as it seems. Steve gets to the barn/garage thing. The front is padlocked. Unlike the house, the doors are steel, rusted, and bent but sturdy enough. 

Not sturdy enough to face down Captain America, though. Steve rips the lock right off the door with hardly any effort at all. He finds the metal slabs are frozen in place when he tries to open them; probably the hinges are locked up from time and disuse. Sam can’t help but wince at the noise when Steve forces them to move. The doors shriek and whine and grind over the ground while Steve pushes them open. “Sorry,” he murmurs. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Sam replies, checking one of the multiple guns he has tucked into his jeans. Steve grabs a flashlight from his pack. Carefully he switches it on, mindful of the fact it’ll be like a beacon out here in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night. It’s mostly for Sam’s benefit; Steve can probably see just fine without it. The shaft of illumination immediately drives back the darkness, and Sam can see the jeep. It’s black, simple, an older model, which again makes sense. There are metal and plastic tanks around it, probably gas. Clint wouldn’t have relied on getting that elsewhere. There’s also an old cabinet in the back that maybe has tools in it. Sam can see a cellar door in the rear peeking up from under a tarp, which can only be a hiding place, a bunker or something. There’s not much else other than cobwebs. 

Steve lowers the light and heads to the jeep. He gets in the driver’s side. “Where do you think Barton stashed the keys?” he murmurs as he starts looking around, flipping visors and digging in the compartments. 

Sam sighs and gets in the front passenger seat. “You guys have all the answers,” he mutters under his breath, and Steve hears that, of course. He offers his friend an apologetic look. “Sorry.” 

“I know it’s frustrating,” Steve says, getting out again to shine the flashlight under the seat. “But there is a reason. Mission critical.” 

“Uh-huh,” Sam says resignedly, looking out the windshield at the spread of land around them. 

There’s a jingle. “Got ’em,” Steve declares triumphantly, and then he’s springing back into the seat. He jabs the key into the ignition and fires up the engine. It’s been so long that it seems like the engine’s not going to start, parts whining and refusing, but it turns over and rumbles to reluctant life. “Off we go.” 

Steve pulls the car out of the garage before hopping out of it and closing the doors again. Then he’s back, shifting back into drive and stepping on the accelerator. He’s careful but quick in driving along the property before turning to head north. There’s hardly even a road out here, so Steve’s relying mostly on his smart phone (Wakandan technology and completely untraceable), his own sense of direction, and his enhanced eyesight. He doesn’t turn the headlights on, guiding them only by starlight. _Even more apropos,_ Sam muses unhappily. They’re heading into a rockier area, bouncing over the uneven terrain. Sam didn’t realize how rugged the desert is here, and the ride is anything but gentle. He grips the door and hangs on. “How long until we reach the border?” 

Steve glances down at his GPS. “About an hour? There’s a town right before, but it’s fairly small and we should be able to get through it. Our contact will be there.” 

At least he doesn’t have to wait long to get some answer about what this is all about. They lapse into an unusual and not quite comfortable silence. Sam’s watching the road, same as Steve, watching for holes and ruts, watching for other cars in the distance or for any other threat. His mind’s elsewhere though not anywhere in particular. He’s just detached, distracted, so much so that he doesn’t hear Steve at first. “What?” 

Steve exhales slowly, turning to avoid a rather serious dip in the way ahead. “I just asked if you’re okay.” 

Sam gathers himself. He puts on a smile. It shouldn’t be so hard. “Yeah. I just don’t like this.” 

“This being in the dark?” Steve asks. About a mile ahead, there’s a road according to the GPS. “Or this being a fugitive?” 

At first Sam wants to deny that, but the words won’t come, at least not easily. Not now. “Both.” 

“Keeping you out of the loop on this one really was necessary,” Steve insists. The ground’s evening out the closer they get to the road. Steve shifts to a higher gear and steps on the gas, speeding up. “It’s got nothing to do with you, Sam. I really mean that.” 

The earnestness in Steve’s voice makes it impossible to be angry. “I know,” Sam says. “I’m just being pissy.” That sounds pathetic, but it’s true. And he knows his own insecurities are wrapped up in it, which is just stupid. Just because they didn’t tell him the details doesn’t mean he’s a lesser member of the team or a lesser friend. Just because his suit is malfunctioning doesn’t mean he’s not a hero. 

And just because he can’t go home for Christmas doesn’t mean he has to feel this lousy. 

“S’ok,” Steve replies. “Can’t expect you to be cheery all things considered.” 

“No, but it’s not like you’re not in the same boat,” Sam says. 

“Yeah, we’ve been over this. Just because we’re in the same boat doesn’t mean it’s not okay for you to feel bad.” 

Sam wants to argue, but he’s too tired and defeated. He just stares at his friend. Steve’s got the window down, and the warm desert air is brushing through the car. It’s causing Steve’s hair to blow, which makes it all that much more obvious how different he looks. How different he is. This is the closest they’ve been to home in what feels like an eternity, yet Sam feels farther away than ever because they’re here for a mission, not because it’s Christmas and not because this is where he belongs. He heaves another deep sigh. “Crazy that it’s right there.” 

Steve glances down at the GPS, where the big blob of the United States is just north of them, huge and looming. “Yeah,” he breathes. They reach the road, and Steve merges onto it without slowing down heading towards the town ahead. “But this wasn’t your choice. I’m the one who–” 

“Speaking of going over crap. Don’t start with that,” Sam interrupts churlishly. He can see Steve’s jaw tighten just a bit and a hint of red climbing on his cheeks anew. It doesn’t matter if he’s embarrassed. Like all the other times, Sam is not letting him get away with this garbage. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.” He heaves an annoyed breath at how dumb that sounds. “Not that I wanted this, but you know what I mean. This was my choice. I wasn’t signing those Accords with or without you and Barnes and the bombing and all that. Believe it or not, you are not the end-all, be-all of my decision-making process.” 

“Maybe not,” Steve concedes, “but that doesn’t absolve me from makin’ things right.” 

“Making what right?” Sam shakes his head. “I don’t need you fixing anything.” 

“You’d still be back in DC, running peaceful laps around the National Mall, if you hadn’t met me,” Steve insists. He’s tenser now, glancing around less furtively and sporadically, and the jeep’s engine revs louder as he increases their speed. Clearly being out in the open is distressing to him, too. 

Sam winces. “Technically I’d be home in my old bed with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head,” he reminds with a weak laugh. 

Steve’s not amused. “Case in point.” 

“Dude, seriously. I am not interested in another spirited debate concerning whether or not I should be here with you or living an empty but otherwise lawful life back at home. We’ve been down this road, and you know how I feel about it. I don’t know what I have to do to convince you that I’m exactly where I need to be.” 

“Not where you want to be, though,” Steve says, though his voice is quieter. “Not what you deserve.” 

“Steve, you of all people know that what we want and deserve doesn’t matter much in this line of work. We’re soldiers. We do what we need to.” Steve’s not appeased by that, tipping his head back a bit like he’s the long-suffering one. Sam supposes he may think he is, considering how difficult Sam’s been making it for Steve to take all the blame for their current situation. “I don’t regret getting back in. I haven’t once, not even when this has been at its worst.” 

“Sam–” 

“Captain America needed my help. He _still_ needs my help. And face it, Rogers. You’d get your punk ass killed without me watching over your six. You may be the heart of this operation, but I’m the brains. The dead sexy brains.” 

Steve chuckles. “If you’re the brains, what does that make Nat?” 

Sam turns back to the road ahead. “The devil on your shoulder.” Steve laughs more outright to that, and Sam joins him. It gets quiet again a couple moments later. The sound of the jeep racing across the desert is deafening, even more so than Sam’s aching heart as it beats in his throat. “Like I said before… If I have to be here like this, I’m happy it’s with you.” 

The corner of Steve’s mouth turns up in a smile, and he reaches over and knocks Sam’s shoulder. Sam knocks him back (it’s always like punching a wall) and grins to himself. At least he can always do this, get a smile on Steve’s face. 

Ahead there’s light. At first it’s faint, but as they get closer it becomes brighter and more distinct against the inky, starry sky and the dark gray land. That has to be the town. The GPS indicates they’re only a mile or so off now. Beyond the town is the border to the US. Although they’ve hardly been traveling for more than a couple hours since they left Turkey, the passage of time seems much lengthier. Sam’s pulse picks up a little bit in excitement. No matter what this mission is, it does represent a chance to set foot back in the US. He’s not so bitter and angry not to appreciate that. 

As they get closer, the light looks stranger. It’s not quite big enough to be a town, not even a little town. Sam squints at it, and this awful feeling clenches up his gut. The blur of yellow and white gets more distinct, individual dots emerging from the smear of illumination, and something doesn’t seem right. Are the lights moving? Coming closer? It sure looks like it. “What…” 

“Aw, hell,” Steve whispers. “That’s–” 

Gunfire suddenly sprays across the hood of the car. Steve slams on the brakes, ducking down as the windshield is punctured. Sam cries a curse, lowering himself too, and cold terror rushes over him. He lurches, gripping the dashboard desperately, as Steve yanks the wheel and turns the car as sharply as he dares. Sam catches a blur of light – a fleet of SUVs and humvees – coming at them, only a few dozen yards off now and screaming across the desert. They’re black and unmarked. “Federales?” he breathlessly asks, digging in his jeans for one of his guns. 

Steve’s put the driver’s side of the car to the barrage of bullets. The jeep’s clearly reinforced; the sound of the projectiles uselessly battering the door is deafening. Sam can still hear Steve’s soft denial, though. “No.” 

_Ross._

“Shit,” Sam breathes, gripping his gun tighter. The jeep roughly bounces as they race off the bare hint of a road and drive wildly into the rocky hills. Panic leaves him even colder, reeling with just how bad this is. They’re out here in the desert in an unfriendly country with no support, hardly any supplies, and no intel. Just what he freaking feared would happen! “How’d they find us? How’d the hell did they even _see_ us?” 

“I don’t know!” Steve shouts, and he shifts the jeep again, barely avoiding a massive dip in the ground. Gunfire shrieks by them, thunderous as it cuts through the air and strikes rock. He doesn’t turn the headlights on, probably trying to keep them hidden in the darkness as much as possible, but it makes the whole experience even more terrifying and dizzying. “They must have tracked us from Europe!” 

“Did your contact sell us out?” Sam snaps. 

“No way he’d do that!” Steve replies sharply. He guns it, and jeep shoots up a hill before viciously speeding down the other side and into a veritable maze of small gorges and narrow paths. 

Sam bangs his head on the window and cries out. “Then _how?_ ” he shouts again. There’s no answer to be had, and he knows that, but he’s too scared and angry to let it go. “Watch out!” 

Rocks jut up everywhere, shadowy monsters in the night, and they nearly careen into one. Steve brakes hard and turns. Gunfire punctures the driver’s side as he tries to maneuver around the huge boulders ahead. The car lurches, shudders, and nearly tips. Then Steve’s crying out, twisting the wheel hard. “Hold on!” 

Sam smacks his head yet again as the jeep bangs back to the ground. He swallows down bile, blinking away tears, and grimaces as light bursts over them. It’s the headlights of the SUVs behind them, and Sam turns to watch as Steve struggles to get the boulders between them and their pursuers. 

Stone explodes beside him, raining down in a sharp deluge. That was definitely not from gunfire. “RPG!” Sam screams. 

Steve barely reacts in time, violently swerving to avoid the ground detonating just before them. Another grenade lands and bursts to the left, thankfully missing them. Sand and shards of rock pelt the jeep, and bullets slam into the back of the car, shattering the rear window, and this is really bad. “Steve!” Sam hollers, twisting around in his seat more to shoot behind them. He’s doing it blind, because aside from a sea of chaotically bobbing light, he can’t make out the drivers or the people firing at them. He also can’t aim, especially not with the car jerking and jolting this much, but it’s all he can do. There are at least five SUVs behind them. Ross, as usual, has spared no resources in capturing them (or killing them – whatever happened to wanting to take Captain America alive?). “Steve, there are too many!” They hit a deep rut, hard enough that Sam’s back ends up smashed into the dashboard. His gun slips from his fingers. Sam groans and tries to right himself, bending forward and turning, trying to stay cool, but panic leaves him paralyzed as he sees the huge boulder directly in front of them. _“Steve!”_

Steve turns at the last second, and their jeep twists so hard and so fast that Sam’s sure again they’re going to roll. By some miracle, they don’t. Tires shriek and skid, and the massive boulder scrapes Sam’s door in a horrific shriek. The explosion right behind them takes them both totally by surprise, booming and blasting them with heat, and for a moment Sam thinks their assailants shot the boulder they almost hit with another RPG. It’s not that, though. One of the cars drove head-on into the rock a split second after they made the turn and is now burning. 

It clicks in Sam’s addled head. Steve’s trying to lure them into crashing. He can see better than they can. He can react faster. He can navigate this rocky labyrinth, and he’s using it against them. “Damn,” Sam whispers, wincing at the flames. 

“Get down!” Steve cries, wide eyes on the rearview mirror. 

More gunfire sprays over them, pummeling the back of their jeep. Sam ducks, pulling another gun from his jeans. He waits a moment until the attack dies down before leaning back up and returning fire. What he sees back there still sucks, to be honest. Sure, they blew up one of the SUVs, but another has immediately taken its place, and there are more behind that. Their headlights are blinding. They’re on them, and there’s no outrunning them. “We can’t handle this, Steve!” 

“I know!” Steve replies, shifting again and barreling between boulders into a narrow passage between two larger, steep hills. Rocks jut out from either side overhead, obscuring the skies. Another RPG whizzes above them, and the whistle heralds the awful explosion. Fire rains down as the grenade impacts one of the outcroppings, and all the sudden stone is dropping on them. “Shit!” 

It always takes a lot for Steve to swear. A downpour of ragged stone crushing their car and obstructing their path probably qualifies. Steve guns it, dodging a huge chunk that slams into the ground in front of them to the left before twisting the steering wheel to avoid another boulder crushing the earth on their right. “This is like MarioKart from hell!” Sam shouts. 

Steve actually laughs, but the amusement is short-lived. Another RPG goes off somewhere above them, and a ton of rock slams into the ravine. Sam’s not sure if Ross’ goons are trying to kill them by bringing everything down on them or if they’re just trying to block their escape, but whatever the reason, the entire area is collapsing. Steve floors it, shifting again, driving the jeep as fast and as hard as he can. Sam holds on tighter as the car wildly bounces over the debris in their path. The sound of the rock tumbling down is thunderous, more pieces of it slamming into the jeep’s hood and top, utterly battering them. The car’s getting crushed; Sam can feel the damage, the engine shuddering as it struggles to keep going. 

The way out is ahead, maybe fifty feet away, but there’s another explosion, and another, and _another,_ and that last one is so close that Sam’s teeth are rattling where he has them gritted together. He looks behind them and sees a wall of rock and flickering lights that are getting dimmer and more distant. Ross’ forces aren’t following them. That would have been awesome if not for the fact their way out is basically disappearing as rocks tumble down. “Steve!” he warns. 

“Trying!” Steve replies, dodging another boulder that suddenly drops in front of them. Something snaps with a bang, and Sam jolts in his seat. The stink of gas and burning rubber floods his nose. Steve shakes his head surprisingly calmly. “Not good.” 

_You think?_ Sam can’t get the snippy retort out, though. He’s terrified, watching salvation shrinking, feeling like the world’s simply ending around them. “Go, go, go!” 

It’s just plain, old, dumb luck that saves them. Steve’s already driving as fast as the battered car will manage; him pressing harder on the accelerator doesn’t actually equate to more speed. But the RPGs coming at them miss, and rocks ahead fall in a favorable way, and the gas doesn’t leak fast enough to stop them and the engine keeps working and Steve stays steady, and all that means they burst through that narrowing gap at the last second and roar from the little ravine. 

The jeep judders over the ground, skidding and fighting as Steve wrestles for control. It’s another harrowing second or two, but the car stays upright and keeps racing forward. “Holy hell,” Sam whispers, throat knotted in equal parts horror and relief. He looks around and sees the way the jeep’s been maligned, with its windows shattered and its hood dented open and bullet holes everywhere. Then he twists anew to see behind them. There’s smoke and dust billowing in a big, dark plume, starlight shining on the clouds spilling from where they were. “Damn.” 

There’s a tremendous bang, and the jeep quakes roughly. Sam rips back around and sees smoke and flames spilling out from under the hood. “We’re on fire,” Steve states matter-of-factly. 

“No, really?” The car’s seriously protesting now, slowing down and moaning even as Steve urges it across the ground toward the next groups of rocky hills. 

Steve sighs. He grimaces, looking around quickly like he’s trying to gauge how safe it is. “Thinkin’ we should bail on this,” he comments. “Drive the jeep into that rock face there. Hopefully it goes up in a big explosion.” 

Right away Sam reasons out what Steve’s thinking. “They’ll figure that out.” 

“Probably,” Steve replies, struggling with the steering wheel as the jeep vibrates. He’s trying to gain more speed, trying to shift into a higher gear and drive faster. “But it’ll buy us some time.” Not much, but maybe. “You with me?” Steve glances his way. 

“Always,” Sam murmurs. He grabs Steve’s phone and his bag. He stuffs his gun back into his jeans and grabs at the door. It won’t open, no matter how he pulls at the handle. Throwing his weight into it doesn’t do a thing, probably because it’s broken on the outside. Steve notices right away, gripping the steering wheel with one hand to keep them on a strict collision course with the rocks ahead while reaching across and shoving at Sam’s door. The rocks are getting closer, _way_ too close, and Steve throws more of his body across Sam. The door gives and flies off. “Ready?” Steve gasps, untangling and righting himself. Sam nods. “Go!” 

Sam jumps out the jeep. The ground is rough and utterly unforgiving, but he doesn’t lose himself to the pain, tucking and rolling to diminish the impact. It doesn’t take him long to climb back to his feet, though the second he does, the mangled jeep hits the wall of rock ahead. Unfortunately it doesn’t explode, but flames lick outward from beneath the crumpled hood even more. Within a couple moments, the whole thing starts burning. Sam watches for a second, hoping this provides some measure of a diversion. 

If it’s going to, they can’t waste it. Steve comes right to his side, slightly breathless as he too spends a moment watching the fire. Noise from behind them – truck engines and rocks crunching and people shouting – has Steve jerking into motion. “Come on!” he whispers, and together they run. 

* * *

Christmas was always a very religious experience in Sam’s house. Mama is a devout Baptist, so grace was spoken before every meal. She prayed with the Bible every morning. And, of course, church was attended every Christmas eve and again Christmas Day. Sam always liked that, the close atmosphere of the old chapel, hot on even the coolest Louisiana days. The way everyone came together and sang and prayed and celebrated. The candlelight vigils and services. The singing and the gospel. He liked the stories, Joseph and Mary finding shelter in Bethlehem, the baby Jesus swaddled in the manger and the animals gathering around, the angels singing in jubilation over the miracle of His birth… 

And the wise men. It’s so ridiculous that he’s thinking about that again, but he can’t stop. It’s so appropriate, so damn obvious, like the joke that has to be told because it’s right before your nose. “Who’d be the third one?” 

They’ve been walking for almost an hour now. It’s a Christmas miracle all its own, but they’ve managed to escape Ross’ men. Sam has no idea how that happened, if that ruse with the crashed jeep really put them off their scent or what, but however it occurred, they’ve been traveling untroubled and unmolested toward what Sam hopes is getting the hell out of this mess. Not quite the little town of Bethlehem but certainly a little border town that hopefully portends salvation. 

Steve doesn’t answer. He’s been very quiet, following his phone and the starlight again, walking at a brisk pace. Of course, at first they ran, and they didn’t dare speak for fear of being discovered. Since they concluded they lost their pursuers in the deep darkness of night and the huge spread of desert, they have talked a bit and decided the best course would be to continue on. That was mostly Steve. Sam voted for contacting Nat for extraction, but Steve insisted the mission’s too important to abandon. Their contact is probably still awaiting their arrival in the border city, and with his help (Sam knows it’s a _him_ now at least) they can enter the United States and continue on with the op. 

Which they have to do. It’s too important not to. The silence is getting bothersome, though, especially since a little chatter out here in the middle of nowhere isn’t going to make or break their success at this point. Ross’ goons either bought that they died in that wreck, or they’re out looking for them already, which makes the prospect of getting through this border city really daunting. Sam doesn’t want to think about that, and he’s nervous, so he’s trying to quietly chat. “Come on. Whattya think?” 

Beside him, Steve’s still not responding. Sam glances at him, but it’s tough to make out his features in the darkness even with his eyes well-adjusted at this point. Steve’s gaze is narrowed on the road ahead, this winding path they’re taking through more rocky, craggy, unhospitable hills. His jaw is set, like he’s really focused, but something feels… off. Sam can’t put his finger on what exactly. That’s why he’s talking, _both_ because he’s nervous and because he doesn’t like feeling this out of sorts. “Third wise man?” he prompts again. “Barton? Lang?” 

Steve huffs a bit. Once more he chances turning his phone on (the light is far more revealing and riskier than their soft conversation) to see where they are. Their little impromptu car chase with Ross’ jerks put them significantly off course, but they should be coming up on the town soon. That means more people and more of a chance of being caught, so nothing about this is good. “Lang didn’t strike me as the wise man sort.” Steve sounds weird. A little winded. His tone is tense and he’s checking his phone intently, like he can’t see it clearly. “Then again, he and Clint were smart enough to find a way to get home that doesn’t involve stuff like this.” 

“Hey, man,” Sam says, “you okay?” 

Steve’s response is immediate and predictable. “Yep. We should keep going. Almost there.” 

They do, and the conversation dies. Sam really, really doesn’t like any of this. The vulnerability from walking out in the open like this aside, that feeling of foreboding doesn’t ease up. The ground’s getting flatter as they near the town, which means he doesn’t have to spend as much effort keeping his balance on uneven terrain, so he can spare Steve more of his attention. All that odd excitement and anxiety he sensed in Steve all night before this seems to be gone. This whole thing is just… _wrong_. 

Surprisingly, Steve’s the one who starts talking again. “Nat would be a pretty good wise man, if you ask me. A wise woman.” 

Sam grunts. “True. She’s the only one of us who’s got any sense.” He eyes his friend again, noting that Steve’s not moving with his usual grace and confidence. “Or sense of self-preservation.” 

“You have loads of common sense,” Steve argues. He stops suddenly, trying to hide how winded he’s getting, which is weird since the land is flatter and therefore easier to handle and they stopped running maybe fifteen or twenty minutes ago. Sam was the one huffing his way up the hills in a sprint. Steve handled all that with his usual level of physical perfection, and Steve can typically run for miles at top speed without even exerting himself, so why does he look all pale and sweaty now? 

“Yeah, I do, so I have to ask again,” Sam says. “You sure you don’t want to call Nat in for extraction?” The more he thinks about it, the less any of this makes sense. “Why’d she stay back, anyway? We do this junk all the time and don’t have someone hang behind just because.” 

“This is my mission,” Steve says with conviction, like that means something. “I can handle it.” He sniffles, rubbing a hand across his face. Sam just stares. _His mission?_ What does that mean? It’s not like they ever differentiate what they do based on whose idea it is or who got the intel (which is Nat almost all the time, and he has no idea how she does that, come to think of it) or who came up with the plan. Everything is decided as a team. Yes, in some respects, Steve is still their “leader” (if a trio of three fugitives has a leader – Sam doesn’t even know), but he doesn’t give orders or call the shots all the time. 

On the other hand, he doesn’t need to. Both Sam and Nat follow him without question. He indirectly _does_ make a lot of the important decisions simply because they defer to his judgment. It’s a matter of trust, and they all trust each other. 

But, on the _other_ other hand, there’s decidedly something sneaky going on here. This mystery op that’s _Steve’s_ mission in the United States of all places. Sam doesn’t get to probe further, though, because Steve’s phone beeps quietly. He turns it back on, squinting at the screen again. “Well, I have good news and bad news.” 

“Oh, awesome,” Sam grumbles. “Don’t even bother asking me which I want first. Your good news is usually more bad news with a smile.” 

Steve does smile, a shit-eating grin that’d be downright infuriating if Sam wasn’t so worried about him. “Ross’ men are in the town ahead.” 

“That’s not bad news. That’s a freaking catastrophe.” 

“Our contact had to pull out. He’s back in the US.” 

“Waiting for the good part, Cap.” 

Steve sniffles again and stuffs his phone back in his jacket pocket. “He left the stuff for us to use to get across the border in a bathroom in a cantina. Passports.” He looks ahead to where the town is in the distance, once again a smear of light across the dark desert. “He’ll meet us on the other side of the pedestrian bridge.” 

“Okay?” None of that sounds remotely comforting, let alone good. “So?” 

“So let’s get back to it.” Steve starts walking again. 

Sam lurches to keep up. “Wait, wait! So all we gotta do is sneak into a town loaded with our enemies who have already tried to kill us once tonight, find this restaurant, get those passports left by someone we don’t know we can trust and who may or may not be legit, and pray we can walk across the US border without anyone discovering us?” He can’t help his anger. “Are you _listening_ to yourself? Why? What is so important that we’re risking this? Steve, if Ross catches you – Steve? Steve!” 

All the sudden, Steve’s staggering. Sam barely grabs him before he ends up on his face in the dirt. The second Sam gets his arms around him, he feels warm wetness on Steve’s left flank. He holds Steve’s trembling form in his left arm and raises his right hand. It’s hard to see in the darkness, but Sam sadly knows exactly what blood looks like under starlight. The smell of it assails his nose now, and he grimaces. “Aw, hell... What the hell...” 

“’s not bad,” Steve mumbles into his shoulder, though the way the other man’s dropping all his weight onto Sam betrays his assertion. 

“You dumbass,” Sam hisses, and he limps gently over to a slightly more protected area near a bunch of bigger boulders, taking Steve with him. He helps Steve sit and then crouches in front of him. The second Sam moves Steve’s jacket aside, he can see the damage. The blood’s black, thick, glistening where it’s soaked into Steve’s shirt and pasting the fabric to his side and stomach. There’s a lot, so much that Sam can’t easily locate the gunshot wound. He swallows through a tight throat. “Damn it.” 

“It’s not bad,” Steve says again. Just like that, he’s pulling himself together, wiping his bloody hands on his pants. There’s pain in his eyes, but he’s blinking it away. “It’s really not.” 

Sam growls. “Damn it, Steve.” 

“What?” 

“You walked all this time like this?” 

“I’m fine. The serum’ll take care of it.” 

That’s nonsense, the same nonsense Steve’s always spewing. Sam doesn’t let him get up, which Steve is clearly trying to do, and the fact that Sam can stop him speaks volumes of how much pain he’s really in. Plus he’s probably woozy from the blood loss. Steve seems to accept that he’s blowing smoke, because he goes back to sagging against the rocks and letting Sam look more carefully. Sam digs in Steve’s backpack and finds the flashlight. He doesn’t really want to risk attracting attention, but he can’t take care of Steve like this. Switching it on, he puts it in Steve’s hand. “Hold this.” 

“You don’t need to do this,” Steve grits out, shifting uncomfortably. 

“Don’t,” Sam snaps. “Don’t you dare. It’s bad enough you got hit and didn’t tell me. It’s bad enough you walked across a desert bleeding all over and didn’t say a thing. It’s bad enough you seem to think you can take all these hits and just keep fighting!” 

“I can,” Steve insists, but his tone is strained and the words twist into a groan as Sam starts probing. 

“But you don’t get to lie to me.” Sam shakes his head. He pulls the sodden shirt aside and moves Steve’s hand to shine the light better. Then he can’t help but grimace. He’s done battlefield triage plenty of times in the past, and he’s seen some serious stuff during his tours, his time as an Avenger notwithstanding. Still, seeing injuries like this on a friend is always hard to stomach. Steve’s been shot twice, once in the lower left abdomen and the other on his left side just above his hip. Sam has no idea when it happened, but clearly some of the gunfire made it through Steve’s side of the jeep when Steve used it like a shield. The fact that he got shot _through_ the door probably means a big gun with big caliber bullets. It also means the bullets are probably mashed to hell and likely didn’t have enough energy to come out the other side. “Through and through?” 

Steve closes his eyes and lets his head drop back against the rock. He shakes his head. _Damn._ That’s not good. Sam grits his teeth and takes off his own coat. He wastes no time in pressing the fabric as hard as he dares on Steve’s wounds. Steve grunts, and the light shakes a little, but otherwise he doesn’t react. Sam’s mind is racing. Injuries like this would be fatal to anyone else, to Sam himself in fact, but Steve’s right yet again: the serum will save him. Hopefully. Sam thinks so, anyway. The bleeding was clearly bad, but it’s better now. Internal damage… Well, the serum usually handles that on its own unless it’s very serious. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on your point of view), if Steve doesn’t go down hard and fast, he doesn’t go down at all. The Winter Soldier shot him four times, beat him half to death aboard the Insight helicarrier, and nearly drowned him in the Potomac River during the war against HYDRA, and even _that_ wasn’t enough to beat the serum. A couple of gunshot wounds probably won’t manage it here and now. 

But Sam’s scared. He’s dug bullets out of Steve before, but not with no supplies, not in so vital an area of the body, and not in the middle of the goddamn desert. Steve needs a hospital with an blood transfusion, and ultrasound machine, and a surgeon who knows more than basic battlefield first aid. “We need extraction,” Sam says again, pressing harder to try and stop the remains of the bleeding. That probably hurts like hell, but there’s no choice. Steve grunts again, eyes half-lidded and a little glassy with the pain. “You need treatment.” 

“What we need,” Steve gasps, gathering himself ragged breath by breath, “is to get up and keep goin’.” 

“Oh, for crying out loud–” 

Steve plants a wet hand over the jacket to put more pressure on it. “Mission’s too important!” he grits out. “And we’re close. We’re so close, Sam. Almost there.” 

“Almost _where?_ ” Sam sputters. “You’re unbelievable! Out of your mind! Absolutely freaking _insane!_ ” 

Definitely, because the next thing Sam knows, Steve’s pushing himself to his feet again. It doesn’t seem like he’ll make it for a second, like taking even this brief respite is enough to suck the remainder of his energy. Like now that he’s stopped and let himself really admit to and feel the injuries he has, it’s too much to ignore. He keeps standing, though, straightening more and more until he’s upright. Sam shakes his head in a mixture of amazement and anger. “The world better be ending,” he says. Fear makes his heart pound. “That’s the only thing that justifies something this completely _stupid._ ” 

“No common sense, right?” Steve tries in vain to cover the huge stain on his side. Now that Sam knows it’s there, he can’t see anything else. Steve takes a wobbly step. “No sense of self-preservation.” 

Sam can’t stand to watch him struggle. He stuffs their supplies back in the backpack before standing himself. Then he rushes over. He takes his jacket and ties it as tightly as he can around Steve’s midsection where he’s bleeding. It’s the world’s most pathetic bandage, but it’s all they have. Then he takes Steve’s arm on his uninjured side, draping it across his shoulders to help him walk. “Remember what I said a few weeks back when you got stabbed?” _Stabbed._ Just a few weeks back. Because Steve Rogers is a walking target, a magnet for trouble, and _a complete freaking pain in the ass_. “I said one day you’re gonna get hurt bad enough that the serum can’t handle it, and we’re gonna be stuck somewhere with no help and–” 

“Not today,” Steve declares breathlessly. How hard he’s gripping Sam is pretty good indication of how screwed up he is. “It’s Christmas.” 

“Like that means something!” 

“Means everythin’,” Steve says, and just like that, he’s humming “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and eyeing Sam like he should be joining in on some sort of weird impromptu caroling session in the middle of the Mexican desert. Sam grinds his teeth together and carries them both onward. 

After that, they walk and Steve hums. He’s not delirious, per se, but he’s not all there, either. Disinhibited. It’s the blood loss, maybe the onset of shock. Sam’s never seen his friend quite like this before, and he’s getting more and more scared. If it is shock, then that’s not just bad. That’s dangerous. The internal damage is maybe more serious that Sam can see, than Steve’s letting on. He really needs emergency medical care. 

And they are not going to get it in a Mexican border town potentially swamped by Ross’ men or at the very least under surveillance. Sam’s mind is racing as he contemplates his options and pulls Steve along. He still doesn’t know what this mission is or even how important what they’re doing is, but he has to trust yet again that Steve wouldn’t be doing this unless meeting their contact is utterly vital. And there’s no going back. They’re dozens of miles from Clint’s safehouse, not that the safehouse necessarily has the help Steve requires, though it conceivably would be stocked with medical supplies at least. _I knew we should have left with more gear. I knew it! Last time I ever listen to him._ It’s irrelevant, though, because there’s no way they can walk back that far. 

So that really only leaves two choices: pushing on with the original plan or calling Nat. God, he wants to. He knows he should. He terrified Steve’s bleeding out inside. Steve still has his phone in his jacket pocket, but Sam can simply take it and make the call. Steve can’t stop him when he’s like this. Still, on top of that feeling like a monumental betrayal, he’s not sure that’s the best thing to do. Ross is out in the desert. He’s in the town. Calling Nat and quinjet in seems risky. If he and Steve are doomed to be caught in this mess, they’ll only bring her down with them if she tries to help. It’d be better to have someone free on the outside to bail their butts out. The thought of Ross arresting them and hauling them back to the Raft for incarceration without trial or worse… He’s not going there, not even hypothetically. The bottom line is, if this is going to go south, they’ll need someone to at least _know_. Nat’s worth more away from them right now, as much as he doesn’t want to admit that to himself. That conclusion leaves only going forward as a choice, so forward he has to go. 

The town’s just a mile ahead now. The ground’s sloping down gently. Sam can better see the town’s lights, and he sighs as he stops at the crest of another rocky hill. “Sam?” Steve murmurs. His humming cuts off in the middle of “White Christmas”. Steve grins, even though he’s been staggering more and more, stumbling and dragging his feet. “Awesome.” 

“Not really,” Sam grumbles. He gently lowers Steve to the ground, and Steve just crumples and goes like a rag doll. “Gimme your phone.” 

Steve’s even more out of it. His face is pasty pale in the meager starlight, and he seems dazed. “What for? You’re bein’ kinda Grinchy, by the way.” He hands the phone over all the same. 

“How do you know about the Grinch,” Sam mumbles as he turns the phone on and quickly looks through Steve’s contacts. There’s Nat. Seeing her name makes him doubt the decisions he just made, and his thumb hovers. 

“Tony.” 

The tone of Steve’s voice makes Sam look up from the phone. The way he says Stark’s name is odd. Steve’s lying flat on the ground now, staring up at the millions of stars overhead. His eyes are far away and peaceful. Calm. “He showed it to me last year. Showed me that and a couple other holiday movies I’d never seen.” Steve exhales slowly, and this wistful expression overtakes him. “It was real nice. We had dinner. Talked.” His lips turn upward into a smile. “Talked a lot.” 

Sam stares at him and wonders yet again what happened between him and Stark in Siberia. The look in Steve’s eyes now… He’s never seen Steve like this, either. It makes his own heart hurt for how things ended, for all that pain that Steve’s hiding all the time, that he doesn’t have the strength or mental wherewithal to hide now. His shattered relationship with Stark… 

There’s no time for this. Sam turns back to the phone. There are only a couple contacts in there aside from Nat. A personal number for T’Challa for emergencies. Sam’s own number. Their world, condensed down to each other and the one ally they have. At least that makes finding the mystery contact that much easier. It’s the only one that doesn’t have a name, only a number, with an area code Sam doesn’t recognize. “Great,” he grumbles. There’s no call history, just a series of texts that are pretty much bereft of any identifying information. Even the texts are as threadbare as possible when it comes to facts. A time and a place. Who the heck is this guy? 

It doesn’t matter. If Steve trusts him, that has to be good enough. Sam frantically begins texting. _“_ _GSW_ _. Need emergency medical. Advise.”_ He stares at that for a moment, wondering if this is a good idea, if it’s the best he can do, before hitting SEND. Who knows if he’ll get a response. 

Pocketing the phone, he crouches next to Steve. Steve’s drifted off a bit, eyes closed now like he’s sleeping. The thought of him losing consciousness is pretty terrifying. He’s going down faster and faster. “How you doin’?” Sam softly says, shaking Steve’s shoulder with enough power to be annoying. He measures Steve’s pulse at his wrist. Fast and weaker, but not deplorable. “Steve?” 

“Peachy keen, jelly bean,” Steve mumbles. 

“Apparently you get loopy when you’re wearing more blood than you’re using,” Sam comments, pulling the jacket aside a bit to get a look at the wounds. 

“Not loopy.” 

“Didn’t you hear yourself caroling the last thirty minutes of this fun adventure?” 

“And ’m fine.” 

“Uh-huh. You and I need to talk about your definition of ‘fine’.” Steve doesn’t answer as Sam prods gently at the gunshot wounds. They’re not bleeding so much anymore, but with the bullets inside him, the serum’s not going to be able to heal up the damage properly. That’s also something Sam knows too well, an unfortunate side effect of enhanced healing in that if you don’t get the bullets out of Steve fast enough, the serum tends to heal around them. Again, a doctor is a good idea. 

Steve licks his lips. “Gonna get you somethin’ real nice for Christmas, Sam.” 

At least Steve knows who’s with him. Sam doesn’t think he can handle some kind of delirious jaunt down memory lane. “You’re bucking up against the deadline there,” he comments, trying to find a section of his jacket that’s not saturated with blood to retie around the wounds. “And you don’t need to get me anything.” 

“Too late.” _What?_ Sam looks up from where he’s working. Steve gives a sleepy smile. “You deserve it. I know you.” 

There’s something piercing about those blue eyes. “You do, huh.” 

“Yeah. You think you’re not worthy of being here. You think you’re not bringing anything to the table.” Sam goes cold at how blunt that is. It comes unexpectedly, his insecurities just laid bare like they’re nothing, and he stiffens. All the times he tried to hide how he’s been feeling… Apparently Steve saw through it all. Steve shakes his head. “You dumb or somethin’?” 

Sam huffs. “Hey, I’m not the one who got myself shot.” Embarrassment never feels good. “I’m just a retired soldier, Cap, with a busted suit.” 

“You’re more,” Steve mumbles. “You keep me sane sometimes, I swear. You see clearly when I can’t. Tell me the truth even when I don’t want to hear it. If I’m still… if I still can be Captain America, it’s because you’re here, remindin’ me what that really means. Keepin’ me from hatin’ everything that happened. Showin’ me there’s still good we can do.” 

_God._ Hearing that… Sam’s heart warms, swells, pounds with pride against his breastbone. “Steve, I’m not–” 

“You are. You are the brains. And you’re the heart. You’re the soul, too. Dunno what I’d do without you. It’s like you said.” Steve grins deviously, like he knows he’s making Sam uncomfortable with the praise, even if he’s praising with nothing but what he believes is the earnest truth. “You’re always… Always saving my sorry ass.” 

Sam can’t help a soft, warm smile of his own. “My cross to bear.” 

“Tryin’ to… to keep me out of trouble.” 

“Or at least getting into trouble right along with you.” 

“Bein’ a friend.” 

Sam chuckles softly. “You get loopy _and_ sappy.” 

“It’s the truth, though.” 

“Sure it is.” They get quiet after that, and Sam can’t help but really think about it, about what Steve said. And it’s not like he doesn’t know any of this, but hearing it… He may not have Nat’s agile mind and boundless experience or Clint’s sharp eye or Wanda’s sheer power or Stark’s wealth and smarts. He may be a retired war vet with a flight suit that’s falling apart. He may be just a kid from a poor, blue-collar family in New Orleans, and he may have only gotten involved in this crazy situation because he was jogging on the National Mall that day three years ago, but he’s involved because he deserves to be. He gets Steve, gets him in a way no one else does, and he knows how to be his friend. He’s known that from the very beginning. That’s the reason why he’s here more than anything else. That’s what he brings to the table. It’s not glamorous, but it’s solid and loyal and strong. _Friendship._ And to hell with that sounding like a _My Little Pony_ episode. It’s true. 

Steve coughs and reaches a hand over to grip Sam’s knee. His eyes are fiercely bright in the darkness. “That’s why… Why I’m gonna get you somethin’ real special for Christmas. Have to thank you. You take care of me. Like right now.” 

Blood’s smearing on Sam’s jeans. He reaches down and takes Steve’s hand, linking their fingers together and squeezing tight. “You take care of me too, you know.” Steve closes his eyes, still grinning. “And don’t pass out on me. Your ass ain’t just sorry; it’s heavy as hell, and I can’t carry you.” 

“He ain’t heavy,” Steve softly sings. “He’s my brother…” 

Sam shakes his head fondly. “Something like that.” He checks Steve’s wounds again almost obsessively, like they could have changed in the last moments. “Where’d you hear that old thing? Stark, too?” 

Steve laughs weakly. “No. Tony and me… We’re not like that.” 

The phone in Sam’s pocket chirps. Sam totally forgot about the text he sent. He fumbles to get the device out and switches it on. Sure enough, Steve’s mystery contact responded. _“Rendezvous point_ _still compromised. Re-entry is impossible. Continue_ _as planned.”_ Sam’s gut clenches in dismay and anger. _Damn it._ Continue as planned. That means trying to get across the border on their own. Finding that stupid cantina and getting their passports and praying they can fake being… What? Two American tourists partying over the border on Christmas Eve? How the heck are they going to do that with Steve like this? 

The phone vibrates again. It’s another text. _“How bad?”_

Sam’s so bitter about the whole thing that he doesn’t want to answer. Idly he thinks it’s odd for some random contact to be caring enough about their situation as to inquire about their state like that. Usually when they have snitches or informants helping them with intel or getting access to what they need, these folks can’t care less about them as people. It’s all about greed or power or both. 

That gets him typing back. _“Bad._ _”_ He glances at Steve, who’s losing consciousness again. Sam brings a hell of a lot to the table, sure, but Steve’s their ace in the hole. Steve’s the one who can take on a company of soldiers without help, who can outrun, outfight, and outsmart almost everyone, who can normally take a bullet and keep going like it’s nothing. Whatever this mission is, it just became a hell of a lot harder. _“_ _Plans_ _are_ _compromised.”_

The response is immediate. _“_ _Continue as planned,”_ it repeats. _“Medical across the border.”_

Well, that makes the decision for them. There can be no other choice. With the serum Sam honestly doesn’t know if Steve’s life is in danger. He doubts it, but he’s not willing to risk it. So they have to go on with this mission and see this stupidity through just to get help. 

_Worst Christmas ever_ _._

He stows the phone and grabs the rest of their gear before getting to his feet. “Alright, Rogers. Up.” He leans down and grasps Steve’s shirt and jacket, pulling him upward. Steve’s not helping much, maybe not awake at all now, and he truly is heavy as hell. “Come on, Cap. Cap.” Sam shakes him and jostles him and pats at his face. Steve’s head lolls, and his eyelashes flutter. “Steve? Steve!” 

“’m fine,” Steve slurs, voice rough and barely above a whisper. 

“You say that one more time, I swear to God–” 

Steve groans. “Leave me here. Sleep it off.” 

Sam chuckles, rough and irritated. “Yeah, I’m not leaving you. C’mon. We have to haul ass and get you some help.” 

“Haul ass where?” Steve finally gets his eyes open. He’s clumsy about pushing himself up, but now that he’s more aware, the two of them manage to get him standing. Sam quickly takes his weight again, since Steve’s not even trying to support himself. There’s no clearer sign that he’s well and truly out of it than the fact he is literally standing there and bleeding on someone else. He squints blearily. “Where’re we goin’?” 

_God Almighty._ Sam sighs. “Home, you idiot. Now walk.” 

* * *

It’s easier than Sam thought it would be to slip into the town. They paused on another little hill overlooking it, this one closer with better shelter, and Sam leaned Steve against a boulder while he appraised things through the binoculars. The border town isn’t all that big in terms of square miles, the buildings practically piled on top of each other, but it’s busy. Sam saw multiple trucks and cars coming in and out of the village on a few different roads, and none of them obviously belonged to Ross. He doesn’t know if that was a good or bad thing, if that meant Ross was still out fruitlessly combing the desert or if he pulled back into the town. It was impossible to tell from watching. 

From inside the town, though, it’s pretty obvious the net Ross is casting has more than a few holes in it. His thugs are definitely around; Sam’s spotted them more than once. He’s been well-trained through military service and by Nat at finding his enemies in a crowd, so he noticed them poking around right away. They’re not being careful or inconspicuous, dressed in black and looking stereotypically like special ops soldiers trying to search a crowd. On the flip side, though, that also means Ross doesn’t necessarily have the Mexican authorities or potentially even the American border agents on his side (although the latter’s harder to tell, but if they want to catch Steve and Sam, why not just close down the border to begin with?). Since they’ve had no contact with the US after the Accords fiasco, they don’t really know the political climate back home, if the Accords still have a lot of support or not. Sam recalls from right before the explosion in Lagos that President Ellis wasn’t overly supportive of his Secretary of State’s decision, but Ellis was voted out of office shortly thereafter and the new guy (who kept Ross in his position) is a piece of work. Who knows what that means. 

Regardless, they’re able to get into the border town. There’s a Christmas party going on, a big, loud, drunken one. As Sam watched from the crest of that hill, he saw numerous groups of people around the town, drinking and lighting firecrackers and making noise he was able to hear even from that far away. They weren’t too close to the pedestrian foot bridge that crossed the Rio Grande, but Sam realizes right away he can maybe use them. Getting into the city was a good start. So Sam hauled Steve up again, grumbling all the way about why they couldn’t just sneak across the border somewhere less obvious and busy, and helped him stumble down the hill. He flagged down a flatbed truck carrying a large group of people into the city. Thankfully a few of them spoke English and none were too keen on paying much attention to them. He and Steve were able to hitch a ride in the back, pressed up against a bunch of Mexican workers, and get right into the city. 

Now they’re wandering around. It’s barely controlled chaos inside the town, the streets loaded with merchants, food carts, party-goers, and drunkards. That’s convenient, because Steve blends in. He’s barely got his feet beneath him, staggering and stumbling and practically falling into people. Sam’s trying to guide him without being too obvious about how hurt he is, but it’s hard to do that and keep a look out for both trouble and where they need to go. Steve keeps saying he’s okay and that he can handle this, but that’s not what Sam would call comforting. 

But he can’t slow down to worry. Everywhere there’s noise, loud music in Spanish, shouting and laughing and talking. The spicy aroma of food and the stink of cigarettes and sweat hangs heavy in the warm air. There’s a colorful blur of cheap Christmas lights everywhere he looks, and Sam’s so tired and emotionally spent that he wishes he could stop and enjoy it. People are raucous and drunk and having fun, carefree and just enjoying the moment and each other and the holiday, and, damn, Sam thinks of home. The smells are different, and the faces aren’t familiar, but the feel of this rowdy party reminds him of Mardi Gras, of the Christmas celebrations they used to have on his block, of the grungier sections of New Orleans all alive with the uninhibited thrill of a good time. God, what he wouldn’t give to be back there, hanging with his buddies from high school, eating street food and guzzling cold beer and dancing without a care in the world. 

Sam’s letting his memories get the better of him because he doesn’t notice right away when Steve falls behind. They’re picking their way through a particularly crowded street, dodging people left and right and giving Ross’ bastards a wide berth where Sam identified them at a storefront down the way. One second Sam’s surreptitiously watching them while leading Steve through the throng of people while also trying to figure out where they need to go from the mystery contact’s messages, and the next he hears a ruckus just behind him. He rips around to see Steve nearly knocking down a food stand. Steve obviously lost his balance, though it may be because someone pushed him if the drunk jerks laughing are any indication. He’s clumsily reeling, tipping, teetering, staggering right into the flimsy-looking cart. 

A thousand horrified thoughts slam through Sam’s head. What about the noise? The spectacle? The blood all over Steve that Steve’s not going to be able to hide and that will be visible, even in the chaos and dim light. Ross’ jerks watching them. The drunks, who may or may not escalate (that’s leaning toward _will_ , with the way they’re yelling at Steve). That all rapidly coalesces into this pulsing sense of _bad_ as Sam grabs Steve’s arm and rights him. Steve can’t quite muffle a cry of pain, but Sam can’t bring himself to be gentle with how frantic he is. He summons all the high school Spanish he can remember, sputtering sloppy excuses and apologies, as he pulls Steve up. The cart’s owner speaks English, and he’s swearing at them. 

“Sorry,” Steve gasps, red-faced and breathless. “Sorry! Sorry!” 

“Hey, man,” Sam says to the guy, “he’s a mess. He didn’t mean it!” Thankfully the cart looks okay, and the crowd is just overexcited. Sam gets Steve out of there before anyone throws a punch, darting quickly out of the street and into a crowd down another alley where the music is deafening. He glances to where Ross’ guys are, but he can’t see them. He has no idea if that’s good or bad. 

“Sorry.” Steve’s breathless groan is somehow loud despite the throb of noise. “Screwin’ this one up bad.” 

“It’s fine,” Sam promises, putting his arm around Steve to support him. Steve’s breathing hard and bent over like he can’t straighten his torso all the way. “Can you do this?” 

Steve pants a second more before forcing himself to stand up all the way. “Sure.” He gives a tight smile. “You can count on me.” 

Despite everything, Sam grunts a little chuckle. “Best mission ever,” he comments. He slings his arm tighter around Steve. 

“You got no idea,” Steve mumbles. He grins. “Wait till you see where we’re going.” 

Sam shakes his head. Together they continue down the alleyway. Sam fishes out the phone again, trying to be circumspect about it in case anyone is watching. His mind’s racing again. They have to go what looks like another few blocks; the cantina is pretty close to the side of town where the border bridge is. Sam glances at Steve. Thankfully the sheer volume of blood on him isn’t overly visible, but he reeks of it. There’s no way a US border patrol agent won’t notice. On top of finding the passports, he has to find Steve some new clothes. 

That turns out not to be too hard. There’s a thrift shop of sorts not far from the cantina. Paranoia is making Sam crazy, so he walks Steve around the block a few more times just to get a better look around and make sure they’re not being followed. He spots another pair of men who may be working for Ross; they don’t particularly blend in with the crowd, but they don’t seem to be on Sam and Steve’s tail, either. Comforted by that, he leaves Steve near the side of the sloping shack with instructions to keep an eye out and slips inside. 

Thankfully, the place takes American currency, which Sam takes from Steve’s backpack. He stuffs the new clothes in there and rushes outside. Amazingly Steve’s right where he left him, and together they head off to the cantina. It’s another fretful, anxiety-inducing walk through the crowded streets. It’s very late, and Sam can’t help but wonder as they weave through another throng of drinking, partying people if this city ever sleeps. He scans the crowd again and again, but there’s no sign of Ross’ men. “Feels like things are going our way finally,” he murmurs, leading Steve right to where they need to go. 

The second they step inside the cantina, Sam’s pulse quickens even more and his stomach tightens. He knows bad digs when he sees them, and this one is bad. The place is dark, dirty, and not exactly welcoming. It’s loaded with smoke and booze and rough-looking people. There’s no party in here per se, just a tense air of violent indulgence. Their contact couldn’t have sent them some place nicer than this? Some place safer? Is this based on some sort of assumption that Ross won’t look for them here? Ross would probably burn the town down to get them. 

At any rate, they slip inside the crowded entrance, which is shaking with the waves of bass coming from a few huge speakers. It’s a minor miracle that no one notices them come in. It’s even more of a miracle that they make it to the rear where the restrooms (which are disgusting) are located. Sam tugs Steve in front of him and guides him inside. There’s probably nothing more suspicious than two big guys bundling into a tiny bathroom together, but there’s no choice. Steve may not be able to do this himself. 

The area is tiny, cramped, with a solitary light bulb set into the ceiling overhead that’s rattling and flickering with the music. Sam barely gets the door shut before bringing the backpack to bear. He wastes no time pulling out the flashlight. “Okay,” he breathes. He has to talk loudly to be heard, which sucks. “Where would this friend of yours stash these passports?” 

Steve squints. This close, Sam can see how pale and haggard he is. He doesn’t say anything as Steve squirms around. There’s hardly room to move. Steve looks around for a second before feeling along the wall, probably searching for a secret compartment or some such. Sam winces; that surface looks utterly disgusting. “Oh, this is fun,” Steve groans, lowering himself as much as he can to search near the toilet. 

Sam shakes his head. “Yeah, what a great adventure you’re taking us on. Is this what you meant when you were talking about my really nice Christmas present? The great place we’re headed?” 

Steve’s face contorts in a scowl. “No.” 

“Anything?” 

Shakily Steve sighs. “No.” He rises again empty-handed. They both stand uselessly for a moment, looking around and feeling panic mount. Without those passports, they’re stuck here. They’ll need an entirely new plan, and forget about completing the mission. Or, more importantly, getting Steve medical attention. 

Then Steve turns again and pulls the top of the toilet off. He reaches a bloody hand back for the flashlight, and Sam hands it to him. “Bingo.” Sam can’t see what he’s doing exactly, but there’s a quiet splash of water. Steve pulls out a plastic baggy, lifting it into the light, and there are two passports inside. 

Relief has Sam shaken. “You didn’t tell me there’d be toilet water involved in this op.” He exchanges the flashlight with Steve for the dripping baggy and opens it. 

“Surprise gift,” Steve quips. Then he gasps and groans, leaning into the wall and clutching at his belly. Sam nearly drops the pair of passports he’s pulled out in his attempt to steady him. “I’m okay!” Steve grits out, face taut with a grimace and pain in his voice. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” 

“And I’m Santa Claus,” Sam snips. “We need to get you out of here.” 

“Cross the border,” Steve manages weakly. “That’s what we have to do. Have to finish the op.” 

“Steve–” 

Steve grips Sam’s arm almost painfully tight. “Trust me. Okay? If I can’t make it across, you go. You leave. You get the job done.” 

_What the hell?_ _Not this again._ “Don’t you say it,” Sam seethes. He gets the backpack open and stuffs the passports inside after pulling out the change of clothes. “Don’t you dare say it.” 

“On your left?” Steve jokes, and then he pants in agony. 

“Ha ha,” Sam mutters darkly. “C’mon. Let’s get you changed. We have to at least try to look like we’re not two fugitives on the run from just about everybody.” 

They move fast. Sam helps Steve get his clothes off. The jacket they were using as tourniquet falls to the floor. Steve’s jacket follows. Sam doesn’t bother trying to get his t-shirt off; now that it’s fully revealed, he can see just how much blood’s dried into it, how much it’s plastered onto Steve’s side. It’s pretty bad, but at least the wounds have stopped oozing new blood for the most part. Steve’s pants are alright, which is good because getting them off and new pants on seems like an obstacle they can’t overcome with the space and mobility they have. Sam simply opts to have Steve put a new shirt, an ugly t-shirt that’s too small. Getting him to raise his arm on the side where he was shot is a challenge, but they do it. Then he puts Steve’s dark jacket back on him. Any cover is worth keeping. 

There’s a sink behind them, as small and disgusting as everything else in the bathroom but working at least. Sam washes the blood off his own hands before going to work on Steve. Once they’re both clean, he has Steve splash a little bit on his face, for comfort and to wake him up more if nothing else. He has reservations about getting Steve to drink it, and he can tell Steve feels the same. Any bugs in the water aren’t likely to affect Captain America, but why risk it? “This is going to be a real challenge,” Sam quietly declares as Steve finishes up. “You honestly think the border agents won’t recognize our faces?” 

Steve wheezes a moment before straightening all the way again. His face is dripping, beads of water in his beard, and he pushes wet locks of hair back. “The passports are clean. It should be fine. I don’t exactly look like Captain America anymore, and you didn’t reach celebrity status on the team before everything went down.” He manages yet another weak grin. “No offense.” 

Sam doesn’t care. He’s looking through the two passports. To his untrained eye, they appear legitimate. Fake names and addresses. A fake trail of other countries they’ve recently visited. They even have their pictures in them, their recent pictures because Steve’s has the beard and the longer hair. That means Steve had to have sent the mystery contact photos, which feels weird. “You still sure this is necessary?” He’s honestly terrified. “Once we get in that border line, we can’t get out. And Ross’ people are here, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

“I have.” 

“And this is _that_ important.” 

“Yep.” 

Sam sighs. He doesn’t even bother questioning another fruitless time about what _this_ is. “Alright.” He looks Steve over. He still looks sick, really pale with eyes that are all wrong, but at least the evidence that he’s been shot isn’t so obvious and the stench of blood isn’t so bad. It’s the best they’re going to get. Sam knows they need to move now while they can. He catches Steve’s eyes for a moment and holds his gaze. He could ask him once more if he can handle this, but it’s obvious Steve is going to insist he can, no matter how much he can’t or shouldn’t, so even talking about it is pointless. _Stubborn asshole._ “Alright,” he whispers again, resigned. “Alright.” 

A couple seconds later, they’re heading back into the cantina. It kills Sam, but he leaves his remaining guns behind on the floor near the toilet. There’s no way they can sneak those across the border. Now they’re even more defenseless. 

Which turns out to immediately be a problem. The second they emerge from the bathroom, Sam spots Ross’ men on the other side of the bar. They weren’t there before. “Shit,” he whispers. 

“Yeah,” Steve responds. 

“If they make us, you run,” Sam orders as they step away from the bathroom. 

“Yeah, not a chance,” Steve says right back. Sam’s too riled and tense to roll his eyes. Without even a word, they split. Ross’ guys are probably looking for the both of them together, so at least this may reduce the likelihood of them spotting them. Sam keeps an eye on the three guys near the door, an eye on Steve as he heads surprisingly nonchalantly to the front of the bar, and an eye on where he’s going. He takes his time despite the urge to run so that Steve can get out first. Of course Steve, being the stupid, self-sacrificing moron he is, is doing the same thing, and Sam scowls. _Always my c_ _ross to_ _bear._ So he picks up the pace, moving with more of a purpose, and gets to the door. Ross’ thugs are to the right at the bar, and they’re not being subtle about questioning the people there about anyone unusual. Thankfully the place is still very crowded and deafeningly noisy and people aren’t too keen on helping. Sam can only hope one of these drunk, nasty folks gets pissy and starts a fight. 

Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. And, more unfortunately, just as he’s about to reach the door with Steve not too far behind, one of Ross’ guys looks up and happens to look right at him. Sam’s always said (and believed) that he’s more of a soldier than a spy, and that’s definitely true this time. He doesn’t know quite what to do as the man stares him down, but something – the shift of his eyes or the slight hitch of his breath or maybe the minute tightening of his shoulders or, probably, the operative just _recognizing_ him – gives everything away. Sam knows in his gut that he’s in trouble before anything happens, and he turns and bolts. 

Outside the dark street is still so crowded. He tears into road, plowing into people with reckless abandon. There’s no hiding anymore; the only thing he can do is run and try to get the fight away from the innocent bystanders and Steve. He knows they’re right behind him; he can hear them shouting, hear people crying out as they’re shoved out of the way. He doesn’t think Ross would go so far as to open fire on a crowd in a foreign country in order to capture them, but who knows for sure? It doesn’t matter. Sam just runs. 

Not far from the cantina he spots another dark, narrow alley. Instinct drives him more than anything else, and he thunders toward it, side-stepping and dodging and barely avoiding obstacle after obstacle. In the back of his mind he knows there’s no escape. He’s just going to lure them away and then keep them busy. At least in the alley, he can keep the fight confined. 

He races inside, and he’s immediately swallowed by darkness. Breathing hard, he looks around for something – _anything_ – he can use as a weapon. There’s nothing but stinky trash. Damn it, he should _never_ have left those guns! 

But he doesn’t have time to do more than think that before Ross’ men are rushing in. Enraged and more than a little panicked, Sam charges them. They haven’t even drawn their guns, and he leverages every split second of surprise he can against them. There are four of them now, and Sam rams into the first one, leading with his shoulder. The lead guy staggers back, losing his balance, and Sam doesn’t waste time here either, rounding on their group. He swings the backpack with all his strength, hitting hard and fast. Then he grabs the man’s arm and twists, using him to ram his comrade. They both go down in a mess of black clothes and tangled limbs. 

By now, though, the third guy is coming at him with his weapon drawn and the fourth is calling for reinforcements. Sam can hear him shouting over a walkie-talkie. Unfortunately he can’t spare that disaster more than a passing thought because the soldier with the gun is on him. The man tries to aim, tries to shoot, but Sam’s learned a thing or two fighting alongside Captain America and Black Widow over the last few years. He’s faster than he was as a mere soldier, bolder, and he attacks directly. Ross’ thug obviously thought he wouldn’t considering the firearm, and he’s totally unprepared as Sam bats the weapon to the side. It goes off, the bang echoing through the small space. Sam grunts, fighting for a grip on his assailant’s arm to keep the gun pointed away as the man pulls the trigger again and again. Overhead one of the few lights attached to the building bursts, raining down glass. The man howls his frustration, and for a brief moment, it’s a contest of strengths, Sam’s and his as they wrestle for control of the gun. 

Sam wins, though. He shoves the guy around, drives him into the wall, slamming him there hard enough to stun him. The man’s head smacks back into the building, and Sam seals the deal, delivering a series of sharp, hard punches to the chest and abdomen. Down he goes like a ton of bricks, and Sam reaches for the fallen gun. 

Before he can get it, someone tackles him from behind. It has to be one of the men he dealt with first (or reinforcements are there already, which is really bad). Sam cries out and struggles hard. Training keeps his panic at bay, and his body falls easily into that calm, cold place where there’s no emotion. Where he moves without thinking, fights like he was born to. Where he was when Riley was shot from the sky and there was still a mission that needed to be done. He’s in that same space now, because there’s a mission that needs doing, and it has nothing to do with whatever dangers brought them to this place to begin with. 

It has to do with protecting Steve. 

So Sam fights with everything he has. The guy on his back has him in a chokehold. Sam flails, struggling to breathe and to get him off. He sees the other two with guns on him, and they could shoot, but they don’t. That means they want him alive, probably as a means to get to Steve. Anger bursts into the calm place inside, and he finally gets a good grip on the man’s shirt. With a strangled cry, he flings him over his shoulder. His assailant hits the ground hard. Sam rounds, but not fast enough to avoid the next attack. A punch catches his jaw with enough force to rattle his teeth, and he tastes blood. His brain aches with the blow, and he’s dizzy for a costly second that the soldier uses to shove him down. A foot slams into his side. The next kick Sam manages to catch, but he can’t do anything because the second guy is on him. They’re kicking with abandon. Pain bursts up and down Sam’s chest and belly, and he curls in on himself. 

“Stop,” commands one of the men, the one who’s not busy kicking the crap out of him. The two soldiers cease their assault, standing back a bit. Rapidly Sam gets to his knees, ready to go right back to resisting, but three guns are shoved in his face. He stills himself, breathing hard and tasting blood, fury simmering in his veins. Helpless, he glares at the lead guy. 

The lead guy glares right back. “Nice try,” he says, “You’re under arrest. Where’s Rogers?” 

“Go to hell,” Sam spits. 

“No, you’re coming with us, and you’re going to lead us right to him. After six months of this crap, Ross’ll be thrilled that we finally have you. Wrapping you up in a goddamn bow couldn’t make this any sweeter.” The man smiles viciously. “Merry Christmas.” 

It happens so fast even Sam can’t believe it. A shadow rushes in from behind, and it’s a blur as it attacks. The two other guys go down first. One is thrown into the wall with a bone-crushing crunch. The other is belted across the face, his gun utterly irrelevant as he slumps to the ground. The lead guy squeaks, but that’s all he can do before he, too, is unconscious in a heap with his weapon knocked far from his twitching fingers. 

Sam blinks. Then he stands, looming over the thugs’ unconscious bodies. He sighs, shaking his head. “And a Happy New Year.” 

Steve’s standing behind them, in fine form apparently. Sam meets his gaze and smiles, and Steve smiles back, and Sam’s so damn amazed and appreciative even though he’s seen Steve take down entire companies of enemy soldiers single-handedly before. It’s incredible, and it never ceases to amaze him how often people seem to forget that Captain America is genetically designed to kick ass. 

Then the illusion of being okay shatters, and Steve bends forward, breathing hard. “Sorry,” he gasps, and then he staggers some, an arm wrapped around his mid-section. 

Despite his bloody lips and sore ribs, Sam jumps forward to catch him. “You idiot,” he hisses. “I ran so that you could get out, not follow me.” 

“Yeah, well, they did ask you to lead them to me,” Steve grits out. He swallows hard, as white as a ghost in the alley’s poor light. “We need to go.” 

“No shit,” Sam mutters. He plucks the fallen backpack out of the garbage. “They called for back-up. If Ross wasn’t sure we’re here before…” He doesn’t need to finish. The conclusion is obvious. If they want any chance of getting out of this town and across the border, they have to _run_. 

Unfortunately, running anywhere is pretty much out of the question. They limp out of the alleyway with as much speed as they can muster and head back onto the busy streets. Sam’s ribs are burning as he adjusts his grip on Steve, as he takes more of his friend’s weight so they can go faster. They’re not careful at all now, not trying to hide just how screwed up they are, as they rush through the crowds. It doesn’t matter who sees them. It doesn’t matter if they get in someone’s way and cause a scene. _Nothing_ matters other than getting to the bridge as soon as possible, because they’ve been made, and now there’s a giant clock ticking over their heads, counting down their precious seconds of freedom. 

Sweat prickles Sam’s skin at the small of his back, sticking to his polo shirt, and his eyes burn with it. He’s frantically half-dragging, half-carrying Steve against him as they make their way through the maze of streets. He doesn’t dare slow down, not even to get out the phone and make sure he’s going the right way. He’s doing all this from memory, and he prays it’s right because if it’s not… 

It is. A few minutes later, he sees the bridge ahead. It’s yet another Christmas miracle, and he almost wants to cry for how beautiful it is. There are signs everywhere about the border everywhere. _To_ _the_ _US._ Days ago the mere thought of seeing something like that would have been unbelievable, yet they’re here, just a couple hundred feet from home. The bridge over the inky waters of the Rio Grande is both for vehicular traffic and pedestrians, and on the other side is the United States. Texas, to be exact. That’s where their contact and medical help is waiting. 

Now they just have to get there. 

“You with me, Steve?” Sam murmurs, holding the other man tighter. Steve mumbles an incoherent response. Apparently taking down Ross’ agents sapped the last of his strength. He’s practically dead weight against Sam, and Sam’s downright horrified of what that will mean trying to cross the border. He has to get Steve more awake and aware when they reach the crossing, because there is no way they can fake _anything_ like this. 

First things first, though. They limp and stagger and stumble gracelessly up a little hill where there’s a sidewalk and a railing near the bank of the Rio Grande. The water seems very deep, shimmering under the flood lights on the bridge, and for a crazy second, Sam considers just swimming it. If Steve wasn’t so badly hurt, maybe it would be the easier option. But he is, and they’re here, and there’s no way they can jump in and ford the river without someone seeing at this point. They are well and truly committed, just as he warned they would be back in the desert. 

And this is absolutely, certifiably, undeniably _insane_. 

Sam’s heart is pounding so hard and fast that it hurts as he turns Steve onto the bridge. It’s not very crowded; for crying out loud, it must be after three in the morning. Still, there are enough people that they can’t just cross the bridge and get right in. Sam swallows his roaring pulse and forces his head to clear, dragging Steve up firmer. He’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, since more people can mean a crowd into which they can blend and better distraction for the border agents, but it also means more time spent pretty much trapped out in the open. They’re walking on the pedestrian bridge, and there is absolutely no cover. Sam’s gooseflesh prickles, his innards so tense that it hurts, and nausea roils inside him. He feels nearly light-headed with barely restrained panic. He limps faster, trying to pull away from Steve a little. “Steve?” 

Beside him, Steve is slumping. His eyes are nearly closed, and he’s making no effort to support himself or hide how much pain he’s in. He’s advanced beyond simply looking drunk and now appears seriously sick, which he is. He’s got two huge bullets inside him wreaking havoc, as if the danger of trying to sneak back into the US as wanted fugitives isn’t extreme enough. Sam tries to focus, tries to think. Like there’s a chance to think their way out of this. “Steve, man,” he breathlessly pleads. “Steve, you gotta wake up.” 

A couple cars rumble by to their left, coming into Mexico. Ahead on the other side of the bridge there’s the small crowd of border-crossers. Sam can see them now that they’re nearly halfway across. The border agents are probably already watching them. Nervously Sam glances at the street lights, figuring there are cameras up there. They are so screwed. Not to mention Ross’ people who are probably following them. The ones they clobbered surely will follow them here; even if they don’t know exactly where they are headed, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Can Ross close the border? Sam thought not before, but what does he know? 

Two international fugitives trying to sneak into the US. Ross is the freaking Secretary of State of the United States and a former army general. How can he not? 

“Steve!” Sam hisses, frantic. “Come on!” 

Steve jerks awake, though just barely. Sam’s world blurs with worry. Another place, another time, he wouldn’t dream of saying what he does. “You gotta wake up. Right now. You gotta stand and look decent. You hear me, Cap?” He shakes him, forces him to stand and move. “You gotta _walk_.” 

Steve mumbles something, but he does as he’s told. His stance gets firmer, straighter. “Sure, Sam,” he finally manages, winded as hell but inexplicably more awake. He blinks and blinks. “Are we there?” 

Sam grits his teeth in a combination of anger and horror. “Yeah,” he whispers. “We’re there.” 

And they are. Right ahead is the border. It’s a long building, spanning the entire length of the bridge and a good chunk of land on either side. On its top in giant block letters it reads “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA”, which is like a declaration of doom. There are passages on the road for motor vehicles, checkpoints manned by agents, and there’s the pathway for pedestrians directly before them, one filled with a small line of people waiting to cross. US customs and ICE is right there inside the through point manned by the CBP, and Sam wants to cry this is such a bad idea. “We’re in trouble,” he moans, more to himself than Steve. It’s pointless, fruitless, but he glances around again and again. That probably looks suspicious, but he can’t help himself. He’s looking for Ross. He’s looking for a way out. He’s looking for some other choice. 

There isn’t one. A couple of minutes go by. Pretty soon they’re up to the building. Pretty soon they’re walking inside. Pretty soon it’s their turn. 

And pretty soon they’re face to face with a US border agent. 

The guy’s barely more than a kid. He looks straight out of college, with a wholesome face that likely seems more flustered than he actually is. At the last second just before they step up to the window and its counter, Sam dons what he hopes is an easy, friendly smile. Nat’s voice echoes in his head, advice from an op a couple months back where Sam had to sneak into a computer company and steal some information about microprocessors used in weapons. _“_ _Be nice but not forced._ _Friendly but not forceful. Confident but not_ _arrogant. Your mark needs to like you and then forget about you almost instantly._ _”_ Not exactly helpful here, though it was then. Obviously he got the job done. 

Of course, back then he had Steve and Nat in the wings, ready to beat the crap out of their targets if Sam’s attempt at espionage went south. Not so in this case. They live or die now on his performance. So he smiles and hands over the passports he pulled out a couple minutes ago while they waited in line. “Hey, how ya doin’?” 

“Evening, sir,” the kid says easily, taking the passports. He’s got a serious Texas drawl. Local boy. He glances at Sam a second before turning to the documents. “Are you US citizens?” 

“Yep,” Sam says. Steve’s standing beside him, straight and silent. Sam can feel him shaking as he elaborates. “I’m from Trenton. Chris here–” He tips his head toward Steve, rattling off the fake information on the passport. “–is from Boston.” 

The kid eyes them warily. Sam doesn’t know if that’s from his training or because he’s actually suspicious. “You’re a long way from home. What was the purpose of your visit to Mexico?” 

“Eh,” Sam says, leaning into the counter a tad. “Christmas party. We’ve got friends a little south of here. People we met in college.” 

“Where was college?” 

“Arizona State. Great football team.” That may explain why he and Steve are so big and fit. Plus if the agent is from Texas, maybe it’s a way to connect. 

If it is, the kid’s not taking it. “And they came with you tonight?” 

“Yeah. They dropped us off here.” 

“In the middle of the night?” 

_Shit._ God, he’s terrible at this stuff. “No, no. Earlier. They just went back after having a late dinner. We shopped and had some drinks.” Maybe admitting that isn’t the safest, but he’s on the verge of exploding into useless word vomit. “Speaking of the late shift, hey, dude, sorry. They got you working the graveyard on the day before Christmas? Harsh.” 

The kids smiles weakly. Sam knows he’s hit a nerve. “Yeah. I have to work tomorrow, too.” 

“Sucks, man. You new?” 

A bit of a proud gleam comes to his blue eyes. “Yeah. Second month on the job.” 

“Starting anything new during the holiday season has to be rough, right. Sorry.” The border agent says nothing. Sam drops it, not wanting to seem overly gregarious. _Just let us pass._ He chants that in his mind like some sort of sacred mantra. A desperate prayer. And he glances at Steve, who looks about ready to faint. _Just let us pass. Let us pass. Let us go._

_Please._

“What’s wrong with him?” 

_Damn it._ Now he has no choice but to go all in. “Too much partying,” Sam supplies quickly. “And I think he ate something that didn’t agree with him. Been…” Sam grimaces and whispers, “Hugging the porcelain queen.” 

The agent winces, too. Probably not the first time he’s had a sick traveler, even during his short tenure. He stares at Steve, and Steve finally raises his head a bit and focuses. Their gazes meet. 

_Oh, no._

And just like that, after all of this, Sam knows the jig is up. 

The kid’s eyes widen. Sam can see the recognition work over him, even with Steve’s beard and longer hair, even with how sick and haggard he looks. The kids glances at the wall beside him at his station, at something Sam can’t see. A wanted poster, maybe. _Oh, no, no, no._ The world is closing in on them. Imploding. Collapsing. Trapping them. It’s over. _No._

_Please_ _,_ _no._

Then the kid’s standing, closing his lane, shutting the automatic doors behind them so they can’t run. There’s no point in trying now. The kid pulls his sidearm and clumsily points it right at them. “You two need to come with me.” 

* * *

_“_ _So this is Christmas._ _What have you done?_ _”_ Sam hates this song. He’s always hated it. And for some reason it’s stuck in his head. It’s not even playing for real. He and Steve are sitting in a small interrogation room alone, hands cuffed behind their backs, and it’s utterly silent. Steve’s hunched over in his chair, barely awake, and Sam’s trembling in anger and fear and listening to this goddamn song play over and over and _over_ again in his thoughts. _“_ _And so happy Christmas! I hope you have fun._ _”_ Fun. Yeah, that’s bullshit. _“_ _A very merry Christmas and a happy New Year! Let’s hope it’s a good one without any fear._ _”_

He’s _terrified._

Their young border patrol agent friend who freaking recognized Captain America deposited them here nearly fifteen minutes ago. After cuffing them and leaving them locked in this room, the kid left, all flustered and scared half to death. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s arrested two of the most wanted fugitives in recent American history who were stupid enough to try to illegally enter the United States on his watch. He’s probably out in the building just beyond, trying to get help. Or bragging. Or running around like a chicken with his head cut off. They didn’t cross paths with any other border patrol agents on their brief march to the interrogation area, which Sam thought passing strange at the time, and he got the impression that something is going down. Maybe the kid can’t get anyone, his supervisors or co-workers, to come running. Maybe no one believes him. 

It doesn’t matter. There’s no way in hell Sam and Steve can get out of this. Steve can break the handcuffs he’s in, sure. And he can break Sam free (actually, Sam knows a few tricks to get out of restraints himself, taught lovingly by Nat). And Steve can bust down the door, and the two of them can possibly fight their way out of this, charge the border patrol and break free and run into Texas. Even this injured, Captain America can likely fight anyone in his path, armed or not. Like before, he can beat anyone. 

But what’s the point? The entirety of US law enforcement will come down on them. Whatever mission they have to run will never succeed with every cop in the country hunting them. Plus (and Sam knows he needs to respect this, because he can practically hear Steve saying it in his head even if Steve’s mostly unconscious) hurting these innocent folks to free themselves isn’t right. These people did nothing, and they don’t deserve that. 

So he’s sitting there, singing that godawful song over and over again to himself, and watching Steve slip further and further away. He’s got fresh blood on his shirt; Sam spots that from where they are sitting side by side. He’s bent over, forehead practically on the metal conference table, and wheezing. Sam can’t stand waiting and can’t hold in his frustration anymore. “Somebody!” he shouts. “We need help in here!” There’s no answer. Sam grits his teeth, letting a few seconds pass before bellowing again. “Come on! Somebody!” 

“Sam,” Steve moans, picking his head up just a bit. 

“We need _help!_ ” Sam hollers. Ahead there’s a one-way mirror, a long, glimmering window on their side, and there are probably people there watching. Marveling and congratulating each other on having captured Captain America and Falcon. That just makes Sam’s blood boil. Panic tightens even more inside him, and he rocks his chair a little just because he can’t bear to sit still right now. “He’s hurt! He needs a doctor! For God’s sake, help us!” 

“Sam.” Steve’s voice is stronger now, and he’s lifting himself more. “Sam, it’s alright.” 

“The hell it is,” Sam growls. “You need help.” 

“When they come back, I’m gonna…” Steve grimaces and struggles to keep talking. “I’m gonna surrender myself. Gonna make a deal to get you out of this. Ross wants me. I can use that against him.” 

“No.” 

“I’m gonna get you home.” 

God, not this. “Steve–” 

“That’s what I wanted. You to be home.” Steve’s eyes slip shut. “I’m gonna get you there, I swear. I have to.” 

“What about the mission? You’re talkin’ nonsense–” 

“This all my fault. You can…” He shakes his head. “This is where you can give me crap, you know? For spending Christmas in jail. You said you would.” 

This is utterly infuriating. “You are _not_ turning yourself over to Ross,” Sam snaps firmly. 

Steve winces. “Only thing we have to bargain with. Only thing. And I’m not gonna let them put you back there.” 

Sam stares at Steve hard, as hard as he can like he can drive some common sense into that stupid, self-sacrificing brain. He’s never been able to before. “No. You hear me? I’d rather go back to the Raft, Steve. I’d rather never see home again than let that bastard get his greedy hands on you and the serum. So when they come back, you’re not saying a single word. You understand me, Rogers?” 

Steve doesn’t seem to even hear him, let alone understand. “It’s my fault. Should’ve have tried this. Shouldn’t have… I just wanted to–” 

The door finally opens. It’s just the same border patrol agent, and he’s alone. He’s white as a sheet, very clearly way, way out of his league. Sam stares at him coldly, and the kid looks like he wants to flee, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallows hard. Then he steps inside and closes the door behind him. “Um… We have to wait a little.” 

Sam scowls. “He needs a doctor. Look at him.” 

The young man flinches but does, glancing at Captain America where he’s sweaty and suffering and hunched over himself. “I’m sure we can get some medical attention.” Then he grimaces more and stammers. “Once everyone gets back.” 

“You’re the only one here?” Sam asks evenly. 

The kid blanches when he realizes what he let slip. “No! No, we got others around. Okay? Don’t you think about trying something.” Sam just stares at him. _Really?_ The kid gulps. “But there was some kind of skirmish out in the town, and some of our agents are investigating, and the Secretary of State called? I guess.” He eyes the two ex-Avengers with a mixture of curiosity and terror. “That skirmish wouldn’t have been because of y’all, would it?” 

Sam can’t help his ire. “What do you think?” The kids looks ashamed, like he’s been chastised by a childhood idol, and maybe he has been. Sam can’t believe how young he is, how green, how he’s been mixed up in this mess simply by being the new guy and drawing the crappy shift. An idea comes without him trying, and he quickly decides to go all in. Breaking out is not the best choice. If Ross is calling, they definitely cannot stay here. Maybe he needs to take a page out of Nat’s book and talk rather than fight. 

And a page out of Steve’s. Perhaps honesty is the best policy. He sighs, forcing himself to calm down and relax even if he feels that clock ticking down again, leading them towards disaster. He can do this. He glances to the kid’s uniform, to the US CPB’s shield on one side and his insignia on the other. “Myers,” he calls quietly. A pair of shocked blue eyes shoot to him, like he forgot he has his own name is on his shirt. Sam exhales heavily again. “Look, you know who we are. You know what we do.” 

“You’re wanted for treason,” Myers responds quickly and sharply, pushing back. “You’re war criminals.” 

Yeah, that nonsense is obviously still being spread around. Normally it’d piss Sam off something fierce, but he can’t let it right now. “Just because the government wants to put us in jail and Stark took our names off the roster doesn’t mean we’re war criminals. It doesn’t mean we’re not still out fighting to keep people safe. We are all the time. We’re out in the field, trying to protect you and everyone back home, and we have to do it with no help and no support. That’s what we’re doing now on Christmas. That’s why we’re here. Okay? We have to get back into the US to deal with a threat.” 

That obviously gives Myers pause. Maybe he was about to cut Sam off and remind him that vigilantes are still criminals, but he stops himself. “What sort of a threat?” 

Sam still doesn’t know. “I can’t tell you,” he replies instead. “It’s too dangerous.” Myers isn’t buying that. Sam can’t exactly blame him. “Man, he’s Captain America. _Captain America._ A fight between him and Iron Man doesn’t negate all the good he’s done. If he’s thinks there’s a situation that needs to be stopped, then that’s exactly what’s going on. And we’re going to stop it, but you have to let us go, okay? Something bad is going to happen if we don’t get to where we need to go. Please. We wouldn’t have risked coming here if it wasn’t important.” 

“I don’t have any reason to believe you,” Myer says, shaking his head. “Even if he is Captain America. And if you’re the Falcon and he’s Cap, why don’t y’all just break free?” 

_Don’t tempt me_ _._ “We don’t want a fight,” Sam responds. “Innocent people like you will get hurt if we get caught here, so it’d just be better for everyone if you bail on this situation right now.” 

“I can’t.” 

“Please trust me,” Sam implores. “Trust us! We need to get out of here. Let us go.” 

Myers looks even more flustered. He glances at the door, but there’s no one there to help. “No, I can’t.” 

“Dude, c’mon. You have no idea how serious this is! If we don’t get out of here, people are gonna–” 

“He’s lyin’.” Sam lets his eyes close at the sound of Steve’s voice. _No._ He can’t bring himself to look at his friend as he unceremoniously throws himself on the wire. That’s what he’s going to do, because that’s the same crap he always does. Takes the bad hit. Uses himself as a shield. Does whatever he can, even if it’s stupid and dangerous and reckless, to save someone else. That’s Captain America. 

And Captain America’s breathing hard in the silence. A couple of seconds go by, deep and long and terrible, before Steve gets control and says more. “There’s no mission on the other side of the border.” 

_What?_ Sam turns to his friend, squinting and completely confused. Steve swallows thickly, nodding to the pair of incredulous stares. “It’s true. There’s no threat. Not tonight. I made it up just to justify doing this, but I never thought…” He closes his eyes. “I never thought it’d come to this. I knew it’d be risky but not like this. So please. We’re just… We’re trying to get home. We’re trying to get home for the holidays.” 

Myers shakes his head. “But he said–” 

“I didn’t tell him,” Steve explains. “I wanted it to be a surprise.” He meets Sam’s gaze with a weak grin. “We’ve been away for months, on the run and struggling to get by… Fighting so hard. And it’s not right that he’s here and his family’s at home and he can’t be with them. He’s the reason I can do it, you know? It’s Christmas. I didn’t want him to be away for that.” A sigh slips through his lips, and he looks down. Everything about him screams defeat and sorrow. He’s really laying it on thick. 

Then it clicks. Whoever said Steve Rogers is a lousy liar and a poor actor should watch this pathetic show. Sam sees right through the ruse. It’s ingenious when he thinks about it. Trying to be honest about the mission didn’t work, so why not play to the kid’s humanity? Why not go for sympathy? Why not aim for his heart? Why not appeal to his sense of compassion? And why not use the circumstances to their favor? What person, with any semblance of a soul, would want to see Captain America alone and miserable on the holidays? 

Steve sighs again, shaking his head. “It’s Christmas.” His tone is nothing more than a whisper. 

It’s quiet. Sam can hear the hum of the air conditioner, feel the slight shift of air around him, sense the weight of everything – of the lie Steve just told – pushing them down. Myers is looking between them, appraising them, and he’s got this utterly inscrutable expression on his young face. That makes every second seem longer and more unbearable. Their fate rides on what this kid chooses, and waiting for that decision… It’s downright maddening. 

Then Myers’ hard expression breaks, and he’s sagging. He rushes across the room, and Sam can’t help but tense up in expectation of some sort of attack. There isn’t any. Instead the kid kneels behind him and fumbles to undo the handcuffs. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he gasps as he gets Sam free. Then he takes Steve’s wrists and does the same. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…” 

Sam moves fast. He stands and pulls Steve with him, putting his arm around his neck. He supposes he could just run or knock Myers out, but the kid’s already back at the interrogation room door. He opens it slowly and glances outside, clearly checking to see if the hallway’s clear. Then he motions to Sam. Sam comes closer, dragging Steve. They leave the room and head down the hall as fast as they can. Myers leads, pausing by a room not far away to grab their backpack, bogus passports, and Steve’s phone. After that they’re rushing through the building toward the exit on the American side. When Steve stumbles and can’t go any further, Myers takes his other arm, putting it around his own shoulders to help. Sam tenses; it’s been so long since he’s trusted anyone like this, but the kid offers a weak, harried smile, and together they get Steve to the other side of the building. No one sees them or follows them or stops them. 

Another miracle. 

When they’re there, Myers punches a code into a locked set of doors. They open with a chirp, and the warm night air is sucked inside. Sam can see streets beyond. Cars and buildings. Houses and stores. The American flag, high on its pole. And the flag for the state of Texas. Myers helps Sam take Steve’s weight and they limp out into the night. Once they’re a few feet from the building, the young agent lets them go. Panicked, he pushes them forward as he looks around. “Get out of here. Hurry before they realize something’s up. I’ll cover for you.” 

Sam struggles a moment to get their things on his back and Steve’s body supported. “You’re saving our lives,” he says, surprised and so warm. “His life. Thank you.”

Myers seems surprised, too, just as much by Sam’s earnest gratitude as he is by what he just did. He offers a touch of a smile. “Go home,” he quietly orders. “Merry Christmas.” 

This is one of those times where Sam’s reminded of why they do this, too, why they keep fighting and facing so much hell despite the way they’ve been treated. There are still good people in this world. “You too, man.” With a final nod, the kid’s gone, and they’re alone in the back lot of the building. 

_We made it._

Rapidly they stagger away, Sam pulling Steve with him. He reaches for the phone at the same time, glancing around wildly, thoughts spinning and heart pounding harder than ever. _“Need extraction_ _right_ _now,”_ he clumsily texts. _“_ _On the other side of border.”_

“Sam?” 

Steve’s soft call has Sam stowing the phone. “What?” He holds the other man tighter and continues limping onward. He’s so tired, so sore from the fight, but they’re almost there. Steve’s contact will come and get them out from the open, get them to safety. “We’re almost out of this.” 

“Really am sorry,” Steve mumbles, fleetingly trying to bear more of his own weight. He coughs hard. 

“It’s fine,” Sam says, and it is. The fact that they’re _here_ , back in the United States, and still alive and free is mind-blowing. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry with Steve even if he wanted to. They reach the end of the short street leading up to the rear entrance of the border patrol building. There are closed shops and buildings everywhere, flanked by palm trees and neatly maintained desert vegetation. Christmas lights even adorn a few trees, lonely and misplaced so late at night. Sam has no idea where to go. He takes a deep breath before softly reminding, “You got us out of that.” 

“Got us into it, too.” 

Sam grunts, choosing left just because. He pulls Steve with him, ignoring the ache and fatigue and the fear. “Yeah, well, still. That was a good idea to be all, like, playing to his Christmas spirit. All that junk you said about wanting to go home for the holidays. Good act.” 

Steve doesn’t respond right away, and Sam glances at him where his head hangs down next to him. He lifts his head a little, and a sly smile takes his now bloody lips. “Wasn’t an act.” 

That doesn’t make any sense. “What?” 

The roar of an engine has Sam ripping around. A black cargo van comes down the street, not speeding but certainly not going slow. It stops right beside them, and Sam goes cold with terror, ready for Ross’ bastards to pop out. He makes to run. 

But he doesn’t need to. The rear door slides open with a clang, and Maria Hill is there. She’s dressed in jeans and a lilac blouse and reaching out of the van toward them. “Come on!” she shouts, beckoning them closer. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” 

The whole thing is so mind-blowingly strange that Sam just can’t process it, so he doesn’t. Instead he simply follows orders, rushing across the sidewalk and handing Steve to Hill. Together they haul Steve’s body into the van, and Sam climbs in afterward, scrambling almost face-planting. “Drive!” Hill orders, yanking the sliding door shut. “Drive! Drive!” 

The van jerks into motion, roughly pulling back out onto the road. Sam struggles with Steve’s body, tangled up with him and fighting to right himself. He gives up and tugs his friend protectively closer. Then he looks up. “Holy shit,” he murmurs. 

Nick Fury is there, driving the getaway vehicle. The man’s dressed in black with his iconic eye-patch in place, and he turns to Sam. “Hello to you, too,” he comments blithely. “Hill?” 

“One sec, boss,” she gasps, and she’s rolling Steve onto his back. She’s got a whole bag brimming with medical supplies, which she pulls closer. Quickly she dons a pair of gloves. She’s pulling out bandages, IV tubing, a blood pressure cuff and a pulse oximeter and surgical scissors. “Cap?” she calls. “Steve?” 

Steve doesn’t answer. He’s pale and limp and well and truly unconsciousness. Sam hovers over him in fear, shaking his head. He’s so shocked by everything that he feels utterly paralyzed. Hill’s not, though, and she jabs her fingers to Steve’s throat, counting his pulse. Then she listens to his breathing before taking the scissors to his shirt. “Two,” she calls out. “No exit points. Vitals are rocky.” 

“We’re incoming.” Fury’s announcement draws Sam’s attention again. “Two GSW. We need blood and surgery. ETA: ten minutes.” 

“Copy that,” came a man’s voice in reply over the bulky walkie-talkie Fury has. “We’re ready for you!” 

Sam shakes his head. “Who…” 

Fury sets the radio down. “Got a clinic on standby. One of the doctors there owes me a huge favor. He’ll keep this quiet.” The van turns, and Sam nearly loses his balance again, slumping into the side roughly. He gathers himself, catching Fury’s sharp eye in the rearview mirror. “Nice to see you, Wilson.” 

Sam can’t believe this. He hasn’t seen Fury since right before the Accords fiasco. Fury and Hill and whatever else remained of SHIELD just fell off the face of the planet right before Lagos. At the time, Sam hadn’t understood why, and he was pretty mad about the whole thing. They needed support, and Fury completely and apparently unapologetically bailed on them. Obviously the SHIELD director saw the writing on the wall, though, and fled so he could stay in operation. Leaving Steve to face the wrath of the government and Ross and everything else… That’s crap. 

But maybe it makes sense. “This whole time… You were Steve’s contact?” 

“Yep.” Fury turns back to the road. “Well, Romanoff’s. Rogers for only this op.” 

Something inside Sam’s heart clenches, something that’s bittersweet, that hurts but not in a sharp way. “And the op. All of this… There’s no real mission.” 

Hill looks up from where she’s pressing bandages against the bloody holes in Steve’s abdomen. “The mission was getting you into the country. Can you take his jacket off?” 

Sam’s fingers are numb and tingling as he obeys, taking the cuff of Steve’s coat on the arm closest to him and tugging. “To get me home for Christmas,” he surmises, staring at his friend’s lax face. “For me.” 

“You’re just now figuring it out?” Fury asks incredulously. He cocks his head. “I told Rogers it was a long-shot to keep it secret, but I guess he managed. He’s better at espionage than I gave him credit for.”

Sam’s still struggling with enormity of the truth, struggling to understand. He looks back on everything, on what Steve said, on how he kept up with his ploy. How Sam not knowing the details was mission critical. The emphasis on getting into the country. Steve’s talk about wanting to get him something nice for Christmas. How Sam should be excited about where they were going, about how it would make sense when they got there It doesn’t seem possible. “So let me get this straight. He and Natasha–” 

“It was mostly him,” Fury corrects. He heaves a huge sigh. “I’ve been in contact with Romanoff since the team fell apart. I’ve been keeping a low profile here, trying to leverage old contacts to keep us in the loop. Gathering data and facts and such. Sending information to her.” 

“You’ve been…” All the missions they ran. All the enemies they fought, the terrorists they stopped, the evil arms deals and bioweapons sales and dangerous attacks they prevented. All of that. Sam never really wondered where Nat got her intel, how she always knew where the bad guys were, where Ross was, how to stay just one step ahead of their pursuers while keeping them in the Avenging world. It was enough just to be useful. 

Now it makes sense. Fury’s been feeding her information. The spy shakes his head. “Just because Ross puked all over everything officially doesn’t mean he shut us down.” 

“And all of this was…” 

“Rogers wanted to get you back here,” Fury explains more slowly, like Sam needs things to be clearer. There’s a hard glint to his eye, which speaks volumes of how nervous this whole thing made him. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted. Said he owed it to you.” Sam looks back down at Steve, and that ache inside gets worse. “It was risky, but I had ways to you guys across the border. I know people in the CBP down there. I got a hold of Barton about the safe house and car.” 

“He says hi, by the way,” Hill adds as she inserts an IV in Steve’s hand. “And Merry Christmas.” The way she offers that, so emotionlessly and matter-of-factly, is just ridiculous. 

Fury goes on. “And I was going to meet you right on the other side in Mexico, but obviously Ross tracked you from Europe and flushed us out. Maybe the faulty stealth tech on the jet… That’s really starting to be a problem. I don’t know. Whatever. We tried to stay put, but there was too much heat.” 

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. 

“Had a bad feeling about that. I told Rogers I was not goddamn St. Nick, making Christmas miracles happen.” Sam smiles. “But to his credit, he was right. And he made this one happen.” 

_A Christmas miracle._ A whole series of them. Sam slumps onto his rear, still buzzing with shock and relief and confusion. Slowly the relief began to overrun everything else. He’s watching Steve’s face, watching Hill get the IV settled and the bandages in place and Steve’s vitals on an ambulatory monitor. In an uncharacteristic show of affection, Hill drops a gentle hand to Steve’s clammy forehead. “Don’t worry,” she says softly to Sam. “He’s going to be fine.” 

Sam believes that now. He slumps more, letting fatigue and the strength of his emotions bring him down. His heart’s still pounding, and he’s still breathing hard, and nothing seems quite real because it’s too incredible. After all that craziness, so much danger… After how much their worlds have changed. _We’re_ _back_ _. We’re here. We’re safe._

_Steve got me home._ It’s not just that. _Steve got me home in time for Christmas._

Something clanks against the floor of the van. Sam opens eyes that have slipped shut. He’s still got Steve’s bloody, ruined jacket. The noise came from the pocket. Curious, he summons some energy to pull the garment up and reach inside. He knows what he’s grabbing before he even pulls it out. 

The flip phone. 

Sam holds it, opens it, closes it. Turns it around and spins it in his fingers. Stares at it. Then he stares at Steve, who already has more color to his face, who’s already breathing easier like he knows where they are. _Home._ Sam grins, heart brimming, and shakes his head. “You idiot. You and I are gonna have words when you wake up, Rogers.” 

* * *

They end up not having words, however, at least not the dramatic verbal ass-kicking Sam has planned. Fury drives them to the clinic, and the medical staff (a couple nurses led by an older, balding doctor with whom Fury is very clearly on friendly terms – Sam wonders how many times the guy has saved Fury’s rear) come out with a stretcher. They get Steve inside, and in a matter of minutes he’s in surgery. Sam gets a shower and a change of clothes and some food. After that, he paces the waiting room while Hill makes a few discreet calls. He knows Steve will be fine, but he can’t rest until the doctor comes out with Fury at his side and says as much. 

And Steve is fine. They are able to remove the two mashed bullets during the surgery and repair the (not insignificant) internal damage. Punctured lung and damaged stomach and lacerated liver. The doctor ticks those things off like a uninteresting list of little consequence, and it _is_ of little consequence. Sam finds himself thanking God for the serum yet again because aside from a few days where he’ll be tender and tired, Steve will make a full recovery. 

Of course, he will. He’s Captain America. Even these sorts of injuries aren’t really enough to stop him. Still, as Sam settles in by Steve’s bedside afterward, this feels like another Christmas miracle. 

It’s morning now, and the rising sun’s streaming in through the window, and the day feels new and full of promise. The medical staff comes in and makes sure Steve’s needs are met, that he’s getting the rest, fluids, and blood he needs. They also promise they’re safe, that everything’s been kept secret, and Sam rests easy. He falls asleep there, waiting for Steve to wake up so he can absolutely sure everything is okay. It’s a really deep sleep. 

Some time later (Sam has no idea how much), someone’s nudging Sam back to awareness. He tries to ignore the prodding, but the person’s stubborn and insistent. Sam blinks the sleep from his eyes, wondering for a moment if he’s dreaming because Steve’s there looming over him. Steve’s up and showered and dressed in fresh blue jeans and a clean maroon sweater. It seems so incongruous with what’s happened that Sam’s brain (already kind of offline from sleeping so soundly) can’t reconcile what he knows happened over the last twelve hours with what he’s seeing. Steve shakes his shoulder more, and now Sam can see the signs then that not everything’s over like it never happened. Steve’s in a bit of pain. His sweater’s on the bulkier side, but it doesn’t completely obscure the bandages beneath. He’s not moving with his normal grace. Still, he grins. “Gotta make that deadline,” he says. 

“What?” Sam groans, squinting in confusion. 

“Time to go.” 

Sam shakes his head as he pushes off the blanket someone draped over him and grips Steve’s outstretched hand. The other man pulls him up, and he doesn’t grimace too much. “You’re unbelievable,” Sam murmurs, astonished and touched. 

“So you keep telling me. Come on.” 

A few minutes later, Fury’s driving them again, this time to the airport in San Antonio. It’s afternoon, which seems totally impossible, but apparently Sam slept for at least six hours. Six hours. That was all it took for Steve to recover from major surgery, from wounds that would have killed anyone else. It’s simultaneously sobering and incredible. Another moment where Steve’s been hurt, and Sam’s counting his lucky stars, and it’s hard to think about the next time right now, so he doesn’t. Right now, everything’s fine. 

The sun’s just beginning to set. Steve’s quiet beside him. They don’t talk, not even when Fury deposits them at a private airstrip. Hill’s there, waiting with a small twin-engine plane. Fury doesn’t say much as they get out, but his lips turn into a knowing smile and his gaze is happy (for him). He tells them they’re more trouble than they’re worth as Hill brings them aboard the plane. 

Then they’re taking off, flying the short distance from San Antonio to New Orleans. They still don’t talk. Sam knows he should. There are so many thoughts in his head, everything from how this wasn’t worth it, how Steve should know better, how glad he is that Steve apparently _doesn’t_ know better. How euphoric and elated and excited he is. How much he owes Steve for everything. But the words don’t come. Nothing comes, save for another song rolling around his thoughts. _“Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays,_ _’cause_ _no matter_ _how far away you roam.”_ Sam smiles as he looks down from the plane, and the tiny lines of light spreading across the world as the sunlight fades. It’s stunning. _“If you want to be happy in a million ways, for the_ _holidays you can’t beat home sweet home!”_

He loves that song. Always has. 

And they’re landing in no time at all. Hill’s arranged a car for them, and it’s waiting right on a private tarmac. They’re at some tiny country airfield, away from the hustle and bustle of a major metropolitan airport. She gives them each a nod and tells them to be careful. 

Just like that, they’re driving south to New Orleans. Steve’s behind the wheel again, guiding the SUV through the suburbs. The sky’s gold, orange, and red, burning with the dying day while they weave through towns and copses of trees and swampy fields. The ride is still silent. When they reach the city, Sam’s heart starts pounding anew at the familiar sights, and when they arrive at the streets of his neighborhood, of Bayou St. John with its little houses and old, gnarled trees that have survived time and the test of hurricanes and human development, with its homey aura and Christmas lights showing them their way through the newly fallen night like it’s meant to be… 

Tears blur Sam’s eyes. Steve drives the car through without a word, saying nothing even though he’s surely noticed the emotions building. He proceeds slowly, and when he reaches their destination, he pulls the SUV to the side of the street and puts the car in park. He shuts off the engine, dropping his hands from the steering wheel. Then he waits. 

Sam can see his house. It’s there, just a few feet ahead on the right. The old place, with its green paint and white shutters, with the fence and the stoop and flowers his mother always tended. The night’s warm, and the lights are warmer, and through the living room window he can just see the glow of the Christmas tree. He can see Mama’s shadow in the kitchen window on the house’s side, and his heart aches with relief. _Home._

He finally finds it within himself to speak. The verbal beat down he wanted to give, the harsh words about Steve risking himself and how it was too dangerous and how Sam doesn’t deserve this… They don’t come. Instead he can barely manage a whisper. “Thank you.” He turns from the car window to look at Steve. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t have to say anything,” Steve returns. “And you saved my life back there, so I should be thanking you.” 

“Nah.” Sam’s heart swells again. “Always gonna have your back.” 

“And I’ll always have yours.” It’s quiet again for a beat. Steve’s eyes shine with gratitude, and he gestures to the house, probably to hide his own emotions. “So here we are. See? Told you I wanted to get you something special.” 

Sam grunts a laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah, you did.”

“Didn’t anticipate it being so hard to get it,” Steve admits with a wry smile. “Probably should have figured. Nothing ever comes easy.” 

Sam swallows a knot in his throat. “Nope.” 

“But you needed it. I could tell even before you told me that it was bothering you to be away from home on the holidays. Did you think you could hide that?” 

His shoulders twitch in a half-hearted, somewhat embarrassed shrug. “Not sure that me being homesick warrants an international security fiasco and you getting shot–” 

“Sam–” 

Sam can’t stand it. He reaches across and pulls Steve into a hug. Steve’s surprised for a moment, but he quickly relaxes and hugs him back. They stay like that a moment, comforted by the warm solidness of each other. By the brotherly love and devotion. By the loyalty. “Merry Christmas, Sam,” Steve murmurs, rubbing Sam’s back. “Merry Christmas.” 

Eventually Sam pulls away. He wipes at his face again, embarrassed anew, but there’s no reason to be. Steve smiles, and he smiles, and together they get out of the car. The warm air rolls over them like a welcomed balm, and Sam takes a deep, deep breath of it. It smells right and real. Then he’s walking down the sidewalk, the cracked cement blocks just the way they were when he was a kid, running and riding his bike and playing ball. So is the squeaky gate to his house. And the creaky step to the stoop. The awning. The tiny porch. The hanging plants and the chipped paint on the window trims and the solid boards under his feet. Steve says back on the sidewalk, looking about a moment before sliding his hands into his jeans pocket. He tips his head, still smiling and clearly waiting, and Sam takes a deep breath, reaching for the doorbell. 

The bell chimes. He can just barely hear a familiar gait inside, the floors creaking in a well-worn pattern, and the steps get louder. The door’s unlocked and then opened. 

And Mama’s there. Mama with her slender, petite form and silver-spun black hair that’s cut to frame her elegant and perpetually young face. Mama with her deep brown eyes, smooth skin, and full lips. Mama with her make-up on and her favorite red sweater and black dressy pants. Clearly she’s getting ready for Christmas Eve, for dinner, for church. Her eyes widen and her hands fly to her mouth. “Oh, my sweet Jesus. Sam! _Sam!_ ” 

That tight ache inside Sam just explodes, and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. Fear and pride and pain and relief and so, so much love. “Hi, Mama.” 

Mama’s sobbing, grabbing him, hauling him into her arms. He goes, feeling all of five again, of ten, of eighteen, of every moment of his past where she held him. Feeling like her child again, her son. It’s so good, so sweet, and Sam looses himself in it. It hasn’t even been a year since he saw her last, since he hugged her, but it feels like forever. He never wants to let go again. 

“You’re here! Oh! Oh, my Lord, Sam! Sam, you’re here!” She keeps breathlessly chanting that in his ear, like she simply cannot believe it. Maybe she can’t, just like he hasn’t been able to. “You’re here!” 

“I’m here.” Sam clenches his eyes shut against fresh tears. He breathes deeply. Her perfume. God Almighty, it smells so nice. “I’m here!” 

She pulls away to cup his face, gazing frantically into his eyes. “And you’re okay. You’re okay!” 

“Yeah. I’m okay.” 

Then she kisses him frantically all over his face, his forehead (though he has to crouch for her to reach) and his cheeks and his nose and eyelids. After that she’s embracing him again, laughing and crying at once, and Sam’s doing the same, and nothing can ever be this good. 

A couple moments later, she’s pulling him a few more steps inside, and a flood of questions come. “How did you get here? Are you safe? Praise Jesus! Oh, Lord, I can’t believe this – I can’t _believe_ you’re here! I can’t – I prayed, but I didn’t think… Sammy, I’m just so glad. So happy!” 

“Me too,” Sam says, a bit breathless. “Me too.” 

Mama grins and wipes at her eyes, tugging him more by the arm. “Come in, baby! Come in! I’m just beside myself. I can’t – I was going to go to Janelle’s for supper, love, but not now – I can’t even think… Just come in! Come in!” 

Sam’s about to. But out of the corner of his eye… He sees Steve watching. He sees Steve’s smile. He sees Steve relieved, happy, contented that he succeeded. But he sees a flash of that same old pain, too. Wistful loneliness. Regret. Soft resignation. 

And then he sees Steve turn to walk away. 

“Hey,” Sam calls, pulling away from Mama. “Where do you think you’re goin’?” 

Steve stops mid-step. He pivots. “I was, uh… I was gonna head out. You’re where you need to be.” 

Sam steps back outside. “And so are you.” 

Understanding slowly works its way over Steve’s face. He grimaces and shakes his head. “Sam, no. It’s okay. I don’t need to stay. I’m fine.” 

_No._ Sam’s going back down the porch steps before he can think twice. He grabs Steve’s arm and stops him. “You forgettin’ what I said already? You tell me you’re fine one more time…” 

Steve’s smile saddens. “Sam, it’s okay. Really. I’ll find somewhere to go. I’m okay on my own.” 

_No chance in hell._ “You are not leaving, Rogers,” he declares firmly. “And that’s that.” Steve’s eyes finally meet his, searching, and Sam’s firm. Adamant. After all this, after everything Steve did, there is no way he’s going to skulk off to spend Christmas by himself. Absolutely not. Sam smiles warmly. “What did I tell you about holidays in New Orleans? Nobody ever spends them alone.Didn’t I say that?” Steve’s mouth is hanging limply open, and he just looks lost. He nods. “So get your sorry, stupid, heavy, _unbelievabl_ _y stubborn_ ass in my Mama’s house. Right now.” 

For a second, it seems like Steve’s going to argue further, pull away and leave and sacrifice himself yet again. But he doesn’t, because Sam’s not going to let him. That’s what he’s there for. To be Steve’s friend. 

Today of all days. 

So he leads Steve into his house. Just like that, without another word, it’s decided. Mama is, of course, immediately rolling with it, and she’s nothing but welcoming. The second Steve tentatively steps inside and Sam’s closing the front door behind him, she’s all over him. The hug comes first, which Steve has no choice but to accept. Then the kiss on his cheek. And then the praise. “You’re Steve? Sammy’s friend? Sam’s told me all about you! My word, you’re a big guy. Holy Mary.” 

“Thanks?” Steve says with a sheepish smile. “And this is okay? With you? Ma’am, I don’t want to intrude.” 

“Heavens, boy, are you daft? ’Course it is! You’re welcome for as long as you like.” Steve looks to Sam, alarmed, and Sam grins. Mama grins, too, taking Steve’s arm and pulling him in. “And you better like Southern food. Nobody goes without a full belly in my house. I made all sorts of things I was gonna take over to – are you hungry?” She pats his arm. “And are you the one who arranged all this? Who got Sammy here for the holidays?” 

Steve flushes. “Yes, Ma’am.” 

“Then you’re never gonna eat so well, child. Come on! Come here!” She hugs Steve again, rubbing his back with all the love she always has for Sam, and Sam can see Steve’s not entirely comfortable. How long has it been since anyone’s treated him like this? How long has it been since he’s had affection and acceptance like this? 

But the stiffness melts moment by moment, and the darkness starts to lift in Steve’s eyes. It’s not immediate, but the pain from before, that he always carries now, lessens. It’s soft, subtle, so good… A gift all its own. 

_I’m always going to have your back._

Mama pulls away, patting Steve’s cheek, and then turns back to Sam. Her eyes glisten with joyful tears. “Oh, Sammy,” she whispers like she melting all over again, wrapping Sam back up in her arms, resting her head right below his chin over his heart. “I just can’t believe it! I can’t believe you’re really here!” 

Over her head, Sam glances around. The furniture. The rugs. The familiar aroma of gumbo, of baking spices, of molasses and bread and sugary treats. The way the living room looks, the _same way_ it’s always looked. The dim lights. The decorations. And the Christmas tree, right in its corner, with all the lights and the trimmings and the gifts underneath, lined up and waiting. Everything the way he remembers. Everything exactly the way it should be. 

_Merry Christmas._

“Yeah, Mama,” Sam breathes, holding her with everything he has. “I’m home.” 

**THE END**


End file.
